


Playing House with Voldemort

by buonIqua



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Bisexual Sirius Black, Blackcest (Harry Potter), Child!Voldy, Creepy Cousins, Cynicism at its best, F/M, Family Bonding, Father!Sirius Black, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Passive-aggression, Playing House, Romance What Romance, Sirius Black Lives, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Unspeakable Sirius Black, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-01-15 10:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18497398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buonIqua/pseuds/buonIqua
Summary: In which Hermione turned out to be Sirius Black’s daughter (or was she?), the Veil revealed itself to be a presumptuous piece of magical portal, Tom Riddle proved to be a constantly discontent toddler, and Wizarding World of the 1920s ended up in a state of perpetual scandalisation of epic proportions.Fifth year on, and AU from top to bottom. Tomione. Halfblood!(maybe)Hermione. Essentially CRACK.Or, that time-traveling fic wherein Hermione did a questionable job of child-rearing to one Tom Riddle...“Maliciously, she vowed to bring him up to be a salacious young man that would cavort anything and anyone under the sun until dying and/or being confined to bed from a horrible case of STD. That would surely deter him from amassing his evil army, propagating his discriminatory ideals, and slaughtering innocent people for the heck of it.”





	1. Before Shit Hits the Fan

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter Series and its extensive franchise belong exclusively to J.K.Rowling and all the parties that she happened to allow copyright. I own none of the characters, nor the settings, nor some of the quotes from the fifth book. I'm just playing around a bit with her characters within her HP world. 
> 
> A/N: Please keep in mind this is more or less a crack fic, with non-canon ships and somewhat AU setting.

It all started with the familiar trope of a long lost daughter returning to the fold of a loving yet inexplicably confused family. (Though in her case, confusion trumped love by three to one.)

Hermione Granger (because it is Granger, regardless of the resounding nonsense that Sirius Black has been spouting for about a quarter of an hour now) stared at the Black’s family tree with a disapproving frown and an overwhelming itch to scratch her name (Hermione Lyra Black - how ridiculous) and face of the damn tapestry with whatever it was at hand (she would prefer stabbing her wand through it, but considering the underage ban, even her nails would have sufficed at that particular moment).

“No”, she said, in a deadpanned tone of voice, still refusing to look in Sirius’s direction. She might want to claw his face off instead.

A beat of silence, an uncomfortable shuffling of clothes (Is he pulling his sleeves over his hands again? Merlin, he’s thirty-six and that is too old for any such nervous tick.), and Sirius cleared his throat:

“I do not think denial will mean anything at this point, Hermione.”

“No.” She repeated again, louder and increasingly hysterical, “No. No. _No_!” Rounding on the wincing man, she hissed as she jabbed an accusing finger in his chest, “My father’s name is Richard Granger. My mother loves him, _I_ love him and who the bloody fuck do you think you are to come up to me sixteen years after an uncertain one-night-stand claiming relations?”

In hindsight, she should have said all that in a level-headed and reasonable voice and refrained from making a hole in his shirt with her aggressive accidental magic. Yet, if everyone did as they should, people would all have woken up and found themselves in heaven.

She cut off his efforts to explain himself (again!) with a snarl that had no business being on the face of a respectable young lady of reputable upbringings:

“No! I was born and raised by perfectly kind, courteous, and caring non-magical parents! And no one has any right to transfigure this into an elaborate lie just so my roots can be deemed ‘more worthy’ by people I don’t give a rat ass about!”

Sirius blinked at her, entirely forgotten his placating hand on her shoulders as his jaw slackened in an entire two seconds of confusion. Then he, too, exploded spectacularly into her face:

“Do I look like have that much free time in the first place? I never care about this blasted tapestry before seeing your face conveniently on it, right below mine! And I would care less who bore you, or raised you, or whether or not they are Muggles, if not for the fact that every evident is pointing at you being my child!”

Outraged that he dared think that _he_ had the right to complain, Hermione took in a deep breath and prepared to fire back (Who cares about the noise, anyway? He has made sure to cast several silencing spells on the walls before beginning his ridiculous explanation.) Sirius beat her to it, though:

“Think, you cantankerous girl! I slept with a Muggle sixteen years ago, now my mother’s portrait valiantly refrains from spewing insults at a fifteen-year-old supposedly Muggleborn, Kreacher looks constantly torn between spitting in your face and groveling at your feet, and now, when I do a simple cleaning spell on the damn family tree tapestry, your name and face appears to branch right out of my burn-off face!” Still looking thunderous in the face, he shook her, though lightly, and somehow, desperately, “You are the brilliant one here! _You_ tell me what these mean!”

She crumpled then, not from the force of his manhandling, but from the sheer implications of these hints and what it would do to everything she knew and everything she thought about herself. As frustrated tears spilled from her eyes, Sirius ceased his overemotional state and took shuddering breaths from his position above her head. He patted her back in hesitant and awkward movements, and did not look away when she stared up into his eyes. His grey eyes that she swore was the same shades as hers in the light.

“It can’t be...” She grabbed his face with both hands (not to search his features, which she already caught all kinds of similarities - chin, nose, Merlin forbid, is that her eyebrows on his face?) and sniffled in resignation.

He sighed, face tight but determined in its efforts to appear less likely to vomit than he felt, and whispered back:

“And yet it is.”

* * *

 

The year passed as it should. After managing to survive an uneventful summer wherein Hermione developed instant stomachaches of various degrees each time she saw Sirius, a school year of horrific pink toad loitering about at all hours of the day, an extensive melodrama of building underaged armies and several pubescent tantrums from all kind of sources, Hermione felt as though she had every right to pat herself on the back for a job well done (conveniently forgetting the emotional shenanigans resulted from Sirius’s occasional coded letters asking after her health and study, too much drama, even for her). That was, until the climax of Harry’s disastrous telepathic dream with Voldemort.

“Harry, think about this”, she said, “Harry, you’ve dreamed about the place, that’s all”, she persuaded, “Harry, how on earth could Voldemort have got hold of Sirius when he’s been in Grimmauld Place all the time?”, she pleaded, “Harry, Sirius told you there was nothing more important than you learning to close your mind!” (‘Harry, I love you but can you just please, _please_ think for a moment before rushing yet again into another danger that we could have just avoided by _thinking_ it over first? Yes, I care about what happens to him, too! But should we just make sure that you aren’t just having a particularly gruesome dream first?’)

And on and on it went.

It was no use, though, because Harry, being Harry, would always be that lovable idiot who act with his heart before remembering the existence of his head. Had Sirius also mentioned something of this sort in his letters before? ‘The lack of a brain can be compensated by other virtues, but Merlin forbid if Gryffindors start lacking a _spine_!’

And thus begun their perilous plan of infiltrating into Umbridge’s office to double-check the credibility of Harry’s nightmare.

It turned out, to her horror, that said nightmare seemed pretty credible, after all. She did not show it to the boys, but she was shaken up. He Who May Be Her Father was missing, potentially being tortured by Voldemort and Harry was stressing her out with his own brand of hysteria. And just to make the whole situation more exciting, Umbridge gleefully invited herself into the mess.

“With whom have you been communicating?” The toad screeched like a banshee, hand still twisting Harry’s scalp. Hermione could she him wince in pain from where she was wrestled to the ground by the Bulstrode girl. With every laboring breath and gritting answer from Harry, her rage built up. How dare she? HOW DARE SHE?

She struggled to calm her roiling worry and mounting rage, all throughout the course of Malfoy bringing Ginny and others in, Snape strolling in discussing Veritaserum, and only snapped out of it by the time Cruciatus Curse was mumbled out of Umbridge’s lips. Horror filled her. How low could the Ministry get when Crucio was allowed for use on children? She searched her mind for a solution. _Sirius is missing, and Harry’s about to be Crucio-ed._ No, she must not let this happen!

“It’s illegal!” She cried, already knowing that the toad would not listen to reason, “The Minister wouldn’t want you to break the law, Professor Umbridge!”

It went ignored, of course. The bitch looked too hungry, too anticipating to stop now. Yet, like any villain in Muggle’s book, Umbridge stopped just long enough to gloat evilly in front of Harry. The Dementors... the hypocritical bitch! For someone who hated Magical Creatures so much, she sure had found it easy to make use of them in despicable ways... Then it occurred to Hermione, _of course!_

“Harry - we’ll have to tell her.”

He looked so confused and defiant at her that she just knew that he had no idea what she actually meant. Never mind. He would, soon.

“We’ll have to, Harry, she’ll force it out of you anyway, what’s … what’s the point?”

She turned and started weeping noisily, willing the tears to at least gather at the corner of her eyes. Her friends were all giving her disbelieving stares of various degrees. All, except Harry. Ah, he caught on.

Umbridge smiled like a Cheshire cat, the stretch of lips made her face even bloater, and unbelievably uglier. Hermione mildly wondered how could the toad wake up every morning staring at the mirror and don’t feel like smashing her head into the basin out of respect for everything beautiful and decent in the world. Well, overdosed shamelessness must be a pretty convenient thing to have in life.

Teary eyes and sniveling voice, Hermione sputtered out a tale of desperate children looking up and down for Albus Dumbledore, eager to report news of some imaginary weapons that could wipe both Umbridge, Fudge, and the bulk of the Ministry off the face of the Earth. The toad was buying it, so ecstatically so that her raucous laughter rang through the office and her face scrunched up in a victorious sneer.

“Lead me to the weapon.” She demanded, teeth still bare in a horrific smile and eyes fairly glittered with greed, “Show me.”

And so Hermione did.

She had to admit, grimly but triumphantly, that there had yet any sight that make her more gleeful than that of the centaur herd boring Umbridge away thrashing and screaming like the filthy toad that she was. She would have enjoyed it more, if the thought of Sirius still in Voldemort’s clutch wasn’t plaguing her, and if Ronan and the grey centaur didn’t immediately turn their attention upon Harry and her.

After much pleading, explaining, and appealing to their conscience, all to no avail, even Hermione had to admit that the possibility of them getting out of this situation unharmed and non-traumatized must be close to zero. At that exact moment of despair and terror, Grawp appeared and made the entire afternoon even more bizarre.

“HAGGER!” He roared, “HERMY! WHERE HAGGER?”

Trying not to feel intimidated by the bare fact that a giant remembered who she was and was howling her name at the top of his lungs (and ignore Harry’s incredulous mumble of ‘You always attract the strangest sort, Mione’ beside her), Hermione squeaked breathlessly:

“I don’t know! I’m sorry, Grawp! I really don’t know!”

Then came the giant’s grabby hand. It came down hard, scattering all centaurs around and galvanizing both her and Harry into action. She, in the form of scuttling back in sheer terror and he, in the form of bravely (but somewhat stupidly) gearing up for a futile resistance against the offending giant hand.

He was saved, though, by the greater stupidity of the centaurs, as they heroically launched dozens of arrows into the air and instantly initiated a mini-war with Grawp the Giant for no other reason than that he creeped them out. (What? He scared her, too. But you didn’t see Hermione shooting sharp objects in his direction, no?)

In the midst of the madness that followed, Harry rounded on her:

“Smart plan. Really. Where do we go from here?”

He made it sound like it was her fault, maybe he actually believed that. She understood that he was upset and worried about Sirius. She understood, really. Yet, it was nearly obscene how much his words still hurt. Hermione hid it, though, just as she always had.

“We need to get back up to the castle.” She said, softly but not weakly. She refused to become as emotional as he did.

Harry snarled that by the time they had actually achieved that, Sirius would already have been dead. His agitation was contagious, and it made it exceptionally difficult to be rational and logical.

 _He believes that I do not care_. She realized with a sinking heart. _Of course he does. I have not told him who Sirius is to me, and all he ever heard about him from me are complaints and disapproval._

Still, it hardly seemed prudent to disclose this kind of information at that moment, with centaurs’ arrows flying overhead, Grawp’s roar splitting the air, and rocks and trees being flung carelessly on the head of the bowmen. She decided to switch to technicalities first.

“We can’t do anything without wands. And Harry, how exactly were you planning to get all the way to London?”

Fortunately, and almost magically, Ron and the other three appeared in front of them at that exact moment, bearing their wands and good news of Malfoy’s bat-inhabited face. Intel exchanged, the discussion then turned to the number of people going and the means with which they could go to the Ministry. In the end, it was decided that they would all go, and Thestrals would be the chosen transportation for this particular mission.

Hermione stared dubiously at the general direction that Harry had indicated her Thestral was neighing, feeling more and more stupid as time when by. _Am I even looking at it right now?_ But when everyone was mounted and Luna helped direct her to sit on it, a very different feeling started spreading across her limbs. Dread. Mind-numbing dread. She hated flying, even flying on things which she could actually see (aka brooms). How could she possibly..? How...? It was standing still and she was already dizzy...

And then the invisible thing beneath her lurched up and Hermione held on for dear life without thinking of anything other than expletives and prayers to Merlin.

* * *

 

They landed at the Ministry, half vomiting, half bleating, and all miserable. Theirs was the most conspicuous covert operation that Hermione had ever known, what’s with several occasions of being noisily lost, encountering malignant humanoid and non-humanoid forces in every other corner of the Department of Mystery, and fighting their ways through brains, prophecy balls, and Death Eaters of dubious level of intelligence and moral standards. The only upside about it all was that He Who May Be Her Father was not actually there or being tortured in anyway. The downside, though, was that they had all been rushing to their death quite voluntarily without any justifiable reasons.

 _I will die here,_ she thought, miserably, and angrily, _at sixteen, without even getting my OWLs, or NEWTs._ And feeling remarkably indignant that life was so unfair as to cheat her of the OWLs’ results that she had fairly bleed for during the studying _and_ the test.

At the very moment that Antonin bloody Dolohov (that was a name she was introduced to later)’s spell reached her and pain exploded across her chest, Hermione’s last thought had been _At least they might put my OLWs results on my tombstone. What a grand thing it would be. ‘Hermione Jean Granger, she passed all her OWLs.’ Maybe._

And then there was darkness.

She had not been awake for the majority of the epic battle between the Order’s members and the Death Eaters, definitely not when they appeared dramatically in columns of light, or even when Dumbledore swept through the hall with overwhelming power. She was blearily opening her eyes, though, through the haze of pain, when she heard Harry’s soundless scream. It was always like that. She would always know what he needed even before he articulated it. Even in her pain, his terror snapped at something inside her. What could possibly be so devastating to Harry...? They were still in the Department of Mystery, in a large, rectangular, and dimly lit room that made her head even more fuzzy just trying to make out what was what. As she swept her bleary eyes across the battleground and trying hard to place a name to every face she caught, she saw Sirius, and Bellatrix. He Who May Be Her Father was still laughing. Bellatrix was waving her wand in _that_ particular movement. She had seen it before. _That_. The pain was making her stupid. It was... _classroom, spiders, Moody,...Avada Kedavra._ Oh _._

It was like the pain disappeared, or her consciousness did, because for a glorious moment, Hermione Granger did not think, did not feel, barely remembered that she was still angry at Sirius, and just hurled her body -heavy, wounded and clumsy- up toward Sirius’s general direction. Thanks Merlin she had been close to where he was.

They collided with a resounding ‘Oomph!’ and tumbled unceremoniously into the Veil, Harry’s roar of despair shattering the haze of her pain and Bellatrix’s green spell sizzling her hair.


	2. How About a Heart-to-Heart?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At one point, he sure hoped that he was still in Azkaban and growling at the bars of his cell. A prison which he knew intimately (and in which he stayed by himself) must be ten times better than that which he had no idea about (and being confined alongside his bleeding, raving-in-pain and hating-his-gut long lost daughter).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing - not the characters, nor the world-building. Well, I do own my crackpot imagination, though. 
> 
> A/N: Thank you, guys, for leaving kudos, bookmarking and commenting on this story. Here's the second chapter. Enjoy!

At one point, he sure hoped that he was still in Azkaban and growling at the bars of his cell. A prison which he knew intimately (and in which he stayed by himself) must be ten times better than that which he had no idea about (and being confined alongside his bleeding, raving-in-pain and hating-his-gut long lost daughter).

Inside the Veil of Death was surprisingly spacious, dry and quiet. There was a residing nothingness that felt not quite like hell but far from heaven. It was not dark, it was not white as underworld was wont to be described. There was nothing, no floor (though most of the time when he put down his foot at random direction, his shoes met something concrete), no ceiling, no walls, no dead loved ones whispering temptations, just the billowing of the Veil that they had fallen through. Sirius could still see quite clearly what was going on outside of it. Bella laughing like a maniac, Harry flinging himself into the pandemonium to get to her. People from both sides bleeding and throwing spells at one another. The vision was limited, through, as if looking through a window (a small one), and there was no sound. He had tried, at first, to carry Hermione back through it, but there was an invisible barrier knocking him back without so much as a sparkle. He gave up after the fifth try. Hermione was too weak to bear another experiment of this kind. She had not waken up, just shivering like a drowned cat and wheezing out short breaths that grated on his already fraying nerves. Blood was still slipping out of her school robe and her chest was a horrific mess of bubbling blood and purple gores. _What if she dies? Oh Merlin, no_.

He put her down, kneeled down beside her, frantically tugging at her robe and blouse, trying to shuffle through his mind for something that was more applicable than _Episkey._ Healing had never been his forte. He knew some, of course. He _was_ , after all, the most powerful Black in history (according to his previous boss, who had been trying to sell him the position as viciously as any salesman back when they first met, but his vanity allowed it) and the youngest (and shortest serving) Unspeakable of the Ministry - he was arrested on his fourth month of employment. But still, Sirius Black III was no healer.

Her wound was horrible without the shirt and robe for blood and gores to sip gradually through. The cut went neatly from her left collarbone to her breast and curved upward a bit like a V. A mass of jagged, shorter wound from the other side cut deep at the centre of her chest, not deep enough into the bones but crude enough to stay forever. It looked as if instead of precise cutting the way Snivellus’s spell did, this one blasted when came into contact with skin and spilled over into one cut and several mess spreading from the centre of the spell. Sirius swore and waved a _Tergeo_ at her, trying to clean up blood to inspect the wound further. The gash might leave a fainter scar, but the jagged cursed wound on her breast would stay gruesome forever. Taking in a deep breath, he muttered a curse directed at Snape before steeling himself to perform a _Vulnera Sanentur_ on his daughter’s wound.

It stemmed the blood, thanks Merlin, and cleansed the purple monstrosity enough to close the wounds. The pain seemed to last, though, as Hermione twitched in her sleep and gasped loudly and painfully all the while. He hoped he was not hurting her further.

After it looked slightly better, Sirius slumped back on his ass and let out ragged breaths.

One look at the Veil showed him that in the time he was healing Hermione, the battle was over. No one was outside of the Veil, no one he could see, at least. A pause, then he blinked and moved closer to it, staring. It seemed...strange. Even without people, the rest of the room was clean and orderly, as if no battle had ever happened there. And what a ludicrous thought that was, no? Him healing his daughter wouldn’t have taken more than ten minutes. How could people finish the fight so quickly and clean up so efficiently in the short span of ten minutes? What was he missing here?

“I hate you.”

Sirius’s head whirled around so fast his neck almost snapped. Hermione was still sleeping, eyes swollen shut, but her mumbling voice was distressingly expressive, to the point that even the sound of her grinding teeth could be heard clearly in the empty space. His stomach dropped miserably. She hated him enough that she was professing it even in her sleep, along with her grunts of pain. (At some level, he ought to be pleased with himself. Hate was also an emotion, a powerful one. That she still had it in her to hate him meant that she still cared enough about him, regardless of how warped and negative such regard was.)

Sighing heavily, Sirius moved lingeringly (it was truly difficult to navigate the way here, seeing as he had no way of knowing whether the next place he put his foot down would actually have a surface or not) and sat down beside her prone form. A daughter, he thought, marveling still at the strangeness and almost impossibility of it all. He had nor been a fatherhood kind person, he had never even been a relationship kind of person, and marriage had sounded so synonymous to ‘hell’ that he had worked himself into an apoplexy every time the word had been mentioned with any reference to his name. And yet here she was. His daughter.

He did not dislike her, no. She was a good kid, somewhat too bluestocking and goody-two-shoes for his taste, but a brilliant, passionate, brave, and loyal kid all the same. No, he did not hate her. He was just...bewildered. She was something he had never expected. Jane Whatsherlastname (He didn’t think it prudent to ask Hermione about that, but he tried and tried and really could not remember whether the last name had come into the conversation that one-night-stand sixteen years ago.) was a blur in his memory. Pretty, he remembered, with long chestnut hair and a dimpled smile, and an unseemly amount of interest in teeth and women’s right movement. But that was about it. He could not remember anything else. He should, though, he knew. He had to know more about the one who gave birth to his daughter. It was only basic decency. But Hermione had been quite adamant in NOT answering any of his probing questions about her Muggle family, and it just seemed wrong to go around snooping without her permission.

He still was not quite certain of how to act around her, or whether or not his letters and other means of communication had been a good help or had just been a nuisance to their relationship (or the lack of one). But he wanted to to try. Despite everything, he wanted to try to fix things between them, and to get to know his daughter after years of not even knowing he had one. It gave him hope, somewhat, that she had tried to get to him, after seeing Bella’s curse. Yet the profuse hate confession just now just made the entire experience confusing.

Tugging a strand of sweat-soaked hair behind her ear with a sigh, he turned back to stare at the Veil.

In the hours (or was it days?) that he sat staring at it, the scenery from the other side had changed exactly six times. The freakishly clean and orderly hall stayed for more than 270 heartbeats, before exploding into blinding light and settling down as an unfurnished inside of something that looked remarkably like a glorified shack. For 400 heartbeats or so, Sirius stared unblinkingly at the shabby old man in well-worn tunics and the beautiful red-haired woman wearing medieval gowns of questionable length and tattled hems going in and out and arguing heatedly about a plethora of problems that he could not catch. There was an attempt at hugging and kissing at one point (initiated by the woman) and Sirius had to refrain from getting sick at the prospect of being forced to witness the geriatric sex between a man with one foot in a grave and a woman seemingly his great granddaughter age. Fortunately, the horrific situation ended quickly, as the old man shove her back with unbelievable strength and pointed his wand threateningly in her face. The woman, in retaliation, snarled right back at him with a fleeting flash of hurt on her fine features and and a blast of green magic that took her away, never to be seen again. The man stood alone, hunched back, defeated and angry. At that moment, the scene beyond the Veil just _shifted,_ smoothly and easily, as if a TV shows just happened to change the scene. And he saw, with no small amount of disgruntled astonishment, that bricks and mortars were rising up all about in the faint structure of what he remembered of the modern day Death Chamber. Wizards in justaucorps and witches in stiffed-bodice mantuas mingled about in great speed, working their wands and shuffling through blueprints. This ended quicker than any other sceneries before it, when a blonde-hair and peacock face of someone who was definitely a Malfoy came disturbingly close to the Veil, thumbing his nose at the billowing texture and wagging his finger criminally as if trying to touch it, and the image immediately shattered into pieces.

When the world on the other side of the Veil was reconstructed once again, Sirius felt a mild migraine coming. How long had he been in here? He lost count of the heartbeats somewhere in between the arguments and the romantic venture inside the shack. And now, as trees and birds coming into view, he was more than a bit put out.

The window somehow shrunk, and now he could only stare at the tiny and jagged hole that resembled a broken piece of mirror to a blurring view of green leaves and sparkling sunshine. _What are these illusions?_ He grunted and scooted closer to Hermione’s sleeping form when a breathy and annoyed exhale escaped her lips. She was having a nightmare, he thought, as her body caved in on itself and her eyes tightened with something akin to either pain or anger. After a moment of hesitation, Sirius lifted his hand to her matted hair and stroke it slowly and carefully. Mumbling incomprehensible words, Hermione turned her head a bit but settled down quietly.

Distractingly, he noted that the jagged window had ballooned back into the original size again, and that a dark-haired young man was laughing on the other side of it. A _pretty_ young man in medieval clothes and the woman in green dress hanging on his arms. The same woman he had seen in the shack. There was no shack this time around, though. Instead, it seemed to be the inside of a cave near the sea, and the woman looked younger, livelier than in the other vision. She laughed along with her companion, hands squeezing his shoulder and green eyes sparkled with residue magic. Sirius squinted his eyes a bit, instinctively trying to find any similarities between the young man’s feature and the old man from the shack. There were no such things, though, this man was much more comely than the other man, and the kind of magic that exuded from him was milder, more suppressed and could not hold a candle to the vortex of raw power that the old man from before had held. If anything, the nature of the magic this man had, along with his symmetrical features...actually resembled the woman a lot. A sibling, perhaps? Sirius shuddered as a thought occurred to him, especially when the woman stood on her tiptoe and kissed the man in a particularly unsisterly way. Ugh. What was it with the Veil and the soap operas with Arthurian vibes?

Deciding that he was tired enough of all these high dramas, Sirius resolutely slinked back beside Hermione and closed his eyes for a bit. It wasn’t as if he could try crossing the damn Veil with his daughter still unconscious and might burst into a blood fountain again at any moment.

* * *

He woke to a sweating, frowning, and hissing Hermione. Refraining valiantly from giving out a high-pitched yelp, Sirius scooted almost imperceptibly away from her seemingly enraged face:

“... How are you feeling?”

That was a dumb question, he knew it the moment he let it slip from his mouth.

For a glorious moment between hazing pain and startling consciousness, Hermione almost looked like she regretted saving him. The moment passed quickly, to his relief, and she gasped out a question:

“I... is this inside the Veil?”

“Yes.” He decided to stick to technicality, since that was one route that would most likely prolong their harmonious civility. After his long explanation of all that he had observed in here, Hermione blinked thoughtfully and turned her back on him, presumably to stew over the influx of information and wrestle the pain. When she spoke again, her voice was even and her body more relaxed:

“What did you use to heal me?”

“Something I picked up from here and there,” He shrugged, unwilling to verbally admit that he had to resort to Snivellus’s spell, “But it’s only temporary. We need to get you to a healer soon.”

She grunted:

“How likely is it that we can find one in here?”

“We’ll look for ways to get out.” He stated, standing up again and stalking to the billowing entrance of the Veil.

It was darkness on the other side. He could barely see anything and when he tried to push his hand through, the barrier knocked it right back, with small current of electricity shocking him as a warning. Did this mean they were imprisoned for real? Or was there certains requirements they needed to fulfill in order to pass through? He wondered if using the opening spell was a possibility? Opening? Or unlocking? There were no lock, though...

“So you had history with Bellatrix... Merlin, did you have sexual intercourse with her?”

The question were so abrupt and incongruous that Sirius jumped a bit when he heard Hermione’s voice. He whirled around to face her, his expression incredulous:

“I beg your pardon?”

She was laying down on her side, staring at him unflinchingly and almost, _almost_ , judgmentally:

“Have you ever fraternized with Bellatrix? It feels almost too personal, her hatred for you.” She shrugged with a strange glint in her eyes, “Not the usual disdain she dealt Tonks. She was livid, betrayed and more than simply vindictive.” She curled up and made to sit up again, still not taking her eyes of him, “And I know that the Blacks have had tendencies of coupling with cousins. Your parents...my grandparents were closely related as well, no?”

Sirius shifted uncomfortably on his feet, looking away from her. That was a legitimate question, coming from her. But stills, to think that they had been that predictable. He shut off his thoughts before they could take him back to a time bygone, when there were five Black children, when they all burned with a light so majestic it blinded everyone else. The brighter the light, the deeper the shadow, though. Just look at where they all are now. The dead, the mad, and the discontent.

He turned back to Hermione, voice neutral and matter-of-factly:

“We had something. Years ago. If I had stayed the golden heir of the House of Black, she would have been my intended.”

She was staring unblinkingly at him, though her eyes did soften a tiny bit. He gave a derisive snort and started poking at the Veil again.

“She was not always mad as a March hare. She was...intense, but beautiful and powerful. And at one point, I truly did believe that we would have been happy together.” Not good, but happy.

“But star-crossed lovers rarely survive the day.” She inputted softly.

“I wouldn’t go that far, kiddo.” He was smiling now, though he still made certain not to look back at her, “But yes, sex and passion was one thing, but promises were another. She was the only one of us five who loved the ideals and concept of _the_ Black family the most. When each of us more or less betrayed her in our own way, she went crazy.”

Casting a soundless opening spell, he jerked back when a small explosion bounced back at him.

“In the end, it was inevitable, I think. I have always loved James more than I loved her, just as I have loved my freedom more than I loved James, the same way I love myself most of all.”

He looked her in the eyes now, giving her a smile full of teeth:

“Your father is a selfish person, Hermione. Is that what you want to hear, asking that question?”

For a moment, his daughter looked flustered, then she steeled herself and gazed steadily at him:

“You always reach the worst possible conclusion. Does this mean you are under the impression that I hate you?”

Sirius did not answer her, but he refused to turn away.

She looked straight at him and enunciated carefully:

“Because I don’t. Really.” Clutching her chest and wheezing out a cough, she held up a hand to stop him from rushing to her side, “I don’t hate you, Sirius. I’m just uncomfortable with you in my life, is all. Your existence turns my life upside down. You make me feel sad whenever I think of my Muggle father, knowing he isn’t really my father. You make me feel scared of my mother, who would have been scary indeed if she had known who my father really is all the while and lied to everyone about it.”

She was kneading her temper now, looking more frustrated than pained.

“I thought of myself as a Muggleborn, I was proud of it. I liked that blood-purists have to grit their teeth in frustration that me, a Mudblood, was better than all of them combined, be it in raw magical talent or in speedy theoretical comprehension. I even dreamt of entering into Politics in the future, so I can make an example of myself - a Witch, a Muggleborn who stand at a position where she can make changes - progressive changes - to the Wizarding World. It will drive home that inbreeding is not the answer and that the newer the blood, the greater a magician can be.”

She let out a hollow laugh:

“But now, with half of my blood being your blood, and the blood of generations of inbreeding, everything I stood for, every I hurled at Malfoy over the years suddenly becomes a bunch of hypocritical whines! It drives me mad, and makes me more uncomfortable than you would ever believe.”

She was breathing hard by the end of her speech, eyes blazing and teeth grinding murderously. He wondered briefly if he got this fire-breathing temper from him. Clearing his throat and pretending to act composed in his exuberance, Sirius ventured cautiously:

“Well... if no one knows about it...?”

“It’s not about that.” She tugged a straying hair behind her ear in one impatient movement, “It’s about the righteousness of things. It’s about how I view myself. Do you under... wait, why are you looking prettier?”

This made him frown:

“What are you talking about?” How could she jump from haranguing passionately about blood status to complimenting his appearance in such a short time? _This_ she definitely did not inherit from him. Maybe.

“I’m talking about _that._ ” She was openly goggled at him now, gesturing grandly at something on his face, “Don’t you feel it? Your lines are disappearing. Oh. Not prettier, more like, younger?” She finished with a question, then immediately started looking alarmed, “Wait a minute. Is that happening to me, too? Am I becoming a baby?”

She was not, really. It made him smile at how horrified she was acting:

“You’re fine. Nothing’s happening on your face. And no, I don’t particularly feel anything. Is my face changing that much? Perhaps it is the magic inside the Veil?”

She turned glum at that:

“You look exceptionally young, is all. Late twenty or early thirty, I guess.”

“Well, I _am_ in my thirty’s.”

He was, too. He only ever looked old and haggard because of the years inside Azkaban and the time being on the run after that. He did not feel anything out of sort, but Hermione weren’t one to be deluded by mere illusions, so maybe the Veil was doing something to his face. Why, though?

After a while, his daughter looked even glummer:

“It’s stopped now. How come I’m bursting several arteries over here when you go and have a makeover by ancient magic?”

He would have smirked and gave her a teasing comment, if not for the fact that Hermione immediately spat a cough full of blood the moment she finished the last word. This also followed by a series of wheezing rasps and gasping pants. Sirius abandoned his quest with the damn Veil and rushed to her side:

“Breathe now, Hermione. I think you should sleep this off and let me deal with the escaping route…”

She paused in the middle of her coughs and held a hand to keep him silent:

“Time,” she gasped, “I think…answer…time.”

He halted at her words and everything started clicking. Every vision they had seen were points of time that might or might not had happened just outside this Veil.

“Do you mean we do it like Apparition?” He asked, intrigue now, “But instead of _only_ three D’s, as we can see though the Veil, we _also_ have to guess correctly the point of time on that side and just, what, Apparate?”

She nodded, still somewhat winded, and confirmed slowly:

“You have tried several opening, unlocking and transporting spells, to no avail. If even barrier destroying spells did not yield results, direct Apparition might be the solution. We should try Apparition, with Destination, Determination, Deliberation, and Time, to the exact place and time that is happening outside.”

He was scowling now:

“That’s vague. We might be able to guess the period, even years if we are in luck, but what if the requirements include details up to hours? Or minutes? Or seconds? Hermione, we would be Splinched. No, we will definitely be Splinched.” A memory came to him and he became aven more agitated and adamant, “Absolutely not! You might not mind spending your days without an internal organ or two, but I happen to frown upon having a daughter with a possible variation of asplenia syndrome! Let’s think of something else.”

Hermione looked ready to object, but suddenly went silent and stared astonishingly at something outside of the Veil. Sirius turned to see what had captured her attention. It was the Death Chamber again, and two office workers were sitting in front of a desk discussing something. In fact, the younger man, dirty blond hair and as skinny as a rod, was waving a book at the other man, looking all smug and pleased that even Sirius wanted to bash his head in just to wipe the smirk off. Hermione’s interjected breathlessly:

“Help me get closer to the Veil, please. I think I know when this is.”

He complied, still keeping an eye on the scene outside, just in time to glimpse the annoyed look the older, balder man were sporting. He recognized neither the time nor the people sitting there. But then, on hindsight, it wasn’t as if he had known every Unspeakable and office worker at the Department of Mysteries in his time, either. Back then, he took great pride in being a lone wolf that was so handsome people had no choice but to forgive him in all his reprobate glory.

Hermione, for her part, wasn’t focusing on the two nondescript men, either. Instead, she was squinting her eyes and boring holes into the cover of the book being waved around with an obviously unnecessary amount of interest. Merlin, leave it to his daughter to be salivating over a _book_ when they were being confined in a magical prison for the dead. “It’s said ‘First Edition’ on the cover, no?” She asked with an excited voice, “Check it for me, Sirius! It’s ‘First Edition’, right?”

Startled, he looked carefully at the book again. Leather bound, moving inlayed gold title of ‘Fantastic Beast & Where to Find Them’, and true enough, a tiny ‘First Edition’ can be seen at the lowest part of the cover.

“It is!” Hermione jerked in his arm, answering her own question by herself. She fairly bounced as she looked up at him, “Maybe it’s the year it was published! The book looks to new to have been bought before. Then maybe it’s...”

Before she could even utter the year in mind, a sudden familiar pressure built up in his stomach and Sirius instinctively hoisted Hermione up on his arms and braced himself for a forced-transportation magical mechanism. It was just in time too, for they were immediately being folded into a tiny ball and sucked into a too-tight rubber tube. Worse yet, this tube was much longer than what he had been used to, not mention cold and slimy as if massage oil had been rubbed all over the place. It was several time worse than actual Apparition, and Hermione’s distant echo of “niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii” seemed to agree with his assessment.

Oh well, it seemed that her idea wasn’t correct, after all. The Veil had no qualm about spitting them out at any point of place and time it wanted without taking into account their preferences.


	3. Shit Is Hitting the Fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playing around with random Ministry office workers was one thing, but meeting creepy cousins and acting resurrected ancestors was a tad too radical, even for her. Alas, Sirius did look like he was enjoying himself immensely when Sirius Black II and his brood of siblings and toddling children started bursting into tears and emotionally hollowing “Uncle!” and “Grand-uncle!” at the top of their lungs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter Series and its extensive franchise belong exclusively to J.K.Rowling and all the parties that she happened to allow copyright. I own none of the characters, nor the settings, nor some of the quotes from the fifth book. I'm just playing around a bit with her characters within her HP world.

Playing around with random Ministry office workers was one thing, but meeting creepy cousins and acting resurrected ancestors was a tad too radical, even for her. Alas, Sirius did look like he was enjoying himself immensely when Sirius Black II and his brood of siblings and toddling children started bursting into tears and emotionally hollowing “Uncle!” and “Grand-uncle!” at the top of their lungs.

Being spat out of the Veil was much more dramatic and malodorous than being pushed into it. They ballooned into size with a unceremonious ‘Squelch’ sound and fluids of uncertain origins flooding out in basinfuls after them. She felt plenty of gore on her person and He Who Is Her Father nearly lost his footing and delivered the both of them to the ground with how unsteady he was being.  
“-teen twenty-seven!” This fact was made worse by the fact that her words, which were still going on even through the tight experience of the magical portal of sort, echoed loudly and resoundingly off the four walls of the Death Chamber, to the complete astonishment of the two office workers sitting behind the desk.  
The younger one of them promptly let go of his book (His first-Edition-probably-with-author’s-autograph book. How dare he?) and the older one spat out a mouthful of tea while fumbling ineffectively to find his wand.  
Sirius was faster, though. And so did she. One well-aimed Expelliarmus and gritty Stupefy later, and they had themselves a very quiet room and the faint smell of nervous sweat from the disarmed young man. Sirius calmly put her down, working his joints and staring eerily at the nigh trembling young man. Said trembling young man worked up enough resolve to NOT look back at his stupefied colleague and sputtered out a question instead:  
“Who...who are you?”  
That was a perfectly legitimate question. However, without knowing exactly when they were, it was unlikely that Sirius and Hermione could actually give back a legitimate answer for it. Before she could formulate a good enough of a response, her father (she ought to start calling him that one of these days) abruptly doubled over and held his head in both of his hands, looking surprisingly theatrical in his confusion:  
“I... You are right. Who am I?”  
She could actually feel the level of incredulity in the chamber rising, and not only from the outraged office worker, either. If Hermione had been someone who were more easily embarrassed, she imagined that she would have had a hypertensive crisis due to excessive mortification right about now. But her skin, as had been proven time and again, was thick enough to brace through this massive embarrassment that was her father resorting to amnesia to squirrel himself out of Ministry interrogation. So even though she had (considerable) doubt on the feasibility of this solution, she refrained valiantly from cringing and steeled herself to support his ridiculous act.  
The young man’s face turned into an interesting puce colour as he stared back and forth at Sirius and his stupefied colleague, looking as if he want to object vehemently but were too scared to do so. At that exact moment, her father caught her eyes through the supposedly agonising head-holding, held her stare and had the gall to wink at her. Hermione could feel a blood vessel being burst open from overdosed vexation. She wouldn’t have heeded him, if not for the fact that the stunned office worker had decided that Sirius was either a loony or a psychopath that could not possibly be negotiated with and turned his full attention to her.  
She grabbed Sirius’s arms with tears in her eyes and wails on her lips:  
“Oh father! Is it the Veil? I know that kind of magic should not have been trusted! What would I to do if you are forgetting even yourself?”  
And then, as a perfect end note (and because the damn office worker was opening is mouth to speak), Hermione dramatically spat out a cough full of blood and unceremoniously fainted in Sirius’s arms.  
She did not really faint, of course (even though her wound was hurting so bad she almost wished she actually did fall unconscious). But the commotion caused by her supposed syncope was spectacular enough that she felt almost proud of herself. In particular, Sirius turned full-on freaking-out mode and vehemently threatened to flay the young office worker, who turned out to be Alistair Bulstrode, second-cousin once removed to Tiberius Malfoy - an information that he had repeated most emphatically when Sirius vanished his nose in a fit of impatience as he kept on prattling about identities and protocols instead of notifying the medics to see to her. In the end, the young Bulstrode caved in, poor man, the horror of losing a nose must be unimaginable for one who take so much pride in his looks (the blood relation to the Malfoy was pretty apparent). He sobbed uncontrollably, cradling his just-reappeared nose and sending out signals of help to St.Mungo with trembling voice. His colleague, whose name was apparently Joseph, shuddered awake with a confused ‘Wut?’ in the midst of the chaos and was immediately knocked out again with a wave of Sirius’s hand. If Alistair had had more brains, or guts, he would have tried to call for help from the Aurors or Unspeakables as well. Fortunately for them, though, he seemed to be lacking in both department, that, or maybe Sirius was too scary for him to think of acting out. He didn’t even dare to ask her father anything else, even though the lie about amnesia was pretty much ridiculous by that point. In fact, in the face of Sirius’s threatening wand and ruthless interrogation, the Bulstrode even babbled out a bunch of relevant and irrelevant information. So they were in 1927, early March, even. The current Minister, one Mr. Perseus Parkinson, had decided that starting from this month, officers of the researching type would be required to stay in Death Chamber and take note of any infrequency that happened to the Veil. Apparently, this Parkinson person -aside from being a racial bigot- were also a paranoid man who was having a grand fit against the Department of Mystery and wanting to deal a resounding slap to the Unspeakables by replacing them with incompetent (nincompoops) white-collars.  
Things didn’t go well all the way, though, since several Unspeakables (she did not know how many, seeing as her eyes were screwed shut in an expression of pain) marched in and spells of various sources started being exchanged in earnest. Sirius, still holding her with one arm, dodged and parried with proficiency, before letting go of his wand in a dramatic arc and declared noncommittally:  
“Yield.” Rustling sounds indicated that they were being surrounded. Sirius said, louder this time, “Watch where you are putting your hand. I’m not answering anything until the Head of House of Black arrives.”  
That gave them pause.  
“What are you to Lord Sirius Black?” One of them, with a nasal voice that was definitely not sexy in any way (romance novelists were bloody liars), inquired tersely.  
Her father was even more formidable, as he uncaringly hoisted her up in his arms and answered with (most likely) a straight face:  
“I am his supposedly dead uncle.”  
The silence was deafening.  
“Now, a Black child is bleeding to death over here. Can you please get her to the hospital before interrogating me? Sign her up under the name Lyra Black.”  
Obedient daughter that she was, she cemented her father’s credibility by going fully unconscious.

* * *

 When Hermione next opened her eyes, it was two days later, she was in St.Mungo and her father was flirting with the nurse by her bedside. Which made for a very exasperating awakening. She gave an annoyed cough, and Sirius whirled around immediately. Ignoring the dismayed nurse, he sat down by her side and asked:  
“How are you feeling? Wait, don’t give me that look. You haven’t waken once in three days. I have the right to ask stupid questions.”  
The nurse went away with a frown. Hermione eased up and twitched her lips into a smile:  
“I feel surprisingly good. No pain. Clear-headed. What did they give me for the pain?”  
“No idea,” He shrugged and seemed relieved, “I wasn’t here for the majority of your treatment. I was just let out of the Ministry.”  
That caught her interest:  
“How goes the interrogations?”  
“Good as good can be.” He gave a roguish smile (she shouldn’t have had that heart-to-heart with him, he was becoming a bit too pleased with himself) and got closer to whisper to her, “Magical Community of the 20s is now under the impression that I am Sirius Black I, youngest son of Cygnus Black I, brother of Elladora Black and the late Hogwart’s Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black.”  
She stared at him:  
“The one who died at 8 years old from cholera?”  
Of course she did her homework. There was no way she had gotten through the long-lost relatives shenanigans with Sirius without learning by heart the family trees, the causes of death of family members, the number of maids and house elves over the years, and the alleged dirty secrets that really should stay secret.  
Sirius was clicking his tongue at her:  
“Don’t believe everything you read, love. For Blacks, the things that are common knowledge for the public are all secrets we want the world to know about. True secrets, dirty secrets, are not quite as conventional as topics of tea parties. We hid many interesting thing that other people, and other households, for that matter, wouldn’t dare to think about.”  
“Yes. Like the fact that you were fornicating with your cousin.” She pauses in horror, “Or was it plural?”  
He wasn’t even fazed in the slightest bit:  
“Let’s not discuss that. You’re a bit too young for that.”  
She did not think she would ever be old enough to discuss the number of cousins her father were shagging in and out of his puberty. So she ignored it instead:  
“So he didn’t die from cholera? Or did he not die at all?”  
“The second. He disappeared, quite a mystery, really. Been quite the talk of the family. But there were no bodies, bones, or evidences of kidnapping. Just ‘poof’ and one day no one could find him anywhere.”  
“What kind of parents...” She started in a disapproving tone.  
Only to be interjected by him:  
“The Black kind.”  
There were really nothing to say to that.  
So she turned back to their backstory:  
“Even if you said you are Sirius Black I, the age does not add up.”  
“Time-traveling adds everything up.”  
She was aghast:  
“You told them you time-travelled to the future and back?”  
He shrugged and said:  
“No. That would not explain why you, my daughter, are not appearing on the family tree. I told them I travelled back to the Middle Age, got married, had you, and travelled back.”  
“That would mean I was born and live before the family tree even existed. So it’s logical that my name are not there.” She mused, “Wait, that’s actually make a whole bunch of sense.”  
He looked smug at that and continued:  
“I told them I jumped back in time the first time when I met a young Malfoy from two thousand twenty something with weird clothes and strange trinkets. After pissing him off and wrestling with him, we both travelled back to 476 AD, then he got real angry at the presumptuous eight-year-old and travelled back to who-know-where. Being stuck in the past, I got adopted by a family of wizards and lived there for more than twenty years. Then Arthur Pendragon died and a bloody war broke out, with Merlin and Morgana poking each other with sticks and wizards and Muggles of all kinds gathered around either one of them and launched horrible attacks at each other. We got mixed up in that nasty business, wounded and encountered a shack in the wood, conveniently stumbled across the Veil and got spat back here.”  
The silence lasted for minutes. Then she concluded, very much impressed herself:  
“You should have become a creative writer.”  
His only response was a blood-boiling smirk. That made her even more disgruntled:  
“Stop acting so damn smug. Why do I get the feeling that you are being more cheeky than before? Did the Veil altered your brain to that of a conceited adolescent as well?”  
Again, he didn’t even blink at her annoyance:  
“Oh I’ve always been this way. I was just worried about how to get used to you, is all. I’m alright now. You don’t hate me. We are alive. We are also at a point in time where we can actually change the magical world for the better.” He winked and gave her a winning smile, “Which is where you come into the picture. It’s March of 1927. Do you know the main events that would happen this year?”  
She flinched and stared at him:  
“You want to change time, Sirius? Is that wise? The timeline...”  
“Would have been drastically altered the minute we got spat out of the Veil already that being reserved about it would not serve a thing but suffocating ourselves.”  
She did not redact her disapproving frown:  
“We still should try to be moderate. In the first place, why did you have to reveal that you are a Black?”  
He laid back on the chair and raised an eyebrow almost insouciantly at her:  
“Because I look more Black than any of the Blacks that are alive at this point in time, Hermione. You may have forgotten since I am the only male Black left of our time, but our family genes are ridiculously strong. We resemble each other greatly and if I did not come out to them, soon people will start wondering why the heck it is that I look exactly like the Black’s Head of House and I don’t really think we could ever come up with a plausible answer to those kinds of question.”  
She rubbed at her face with the heel of her hand and grumbled:  
“Yes, so that’s that. But I’m not too sure about changing the timeline, Sirius. What if we do something unintentional and you aren’t going to be born, and what if people in the future recognise that you and I have lived in the past before? There’re just too many factors...”  
“Then what are you suggesting, Hermione?” He cut her off, somewhat impatiently, “That we hole ourselves up in a hut and live the rest of our lives pretending that we have never been here? Leaving Voldemort to reach his power again, letting the war happens all over again, having James and Lily die and watching Harry being orphaned from afar? Is that what you want, daughter?”  
That made her angry. Why was he goading her into a fight? Of course she did not want any of those things to happen, but changing time of this magnitude are not an easy affair by any means. One wrong move and they would be destroyed by Time, not to mention that it was very likely that the changes they bring to the world might actually make things worse. There was no guarantee that things would turn out the way they plan and strategise. Frustrated and angry, she rounded on him:  
“Then what exactly do you hope to achieve, father? Stop Grindelwald before he reach his pinnacle? Voldemort should be a baby now. Would you like to kill him as well? So that our war would not have been started?”  
Instead of exploding in her face like she had been half expecting, Sirius just blinked and looked thoughtfully at her:  
“...He’s only an infant now?”  
“It is written that Tom Riddle the Prefect was awarded in 1943 for Special Service to Hogwarts, in his sixth year, then if my calculation is correct, he was born in either 1926 or 1927.”  
“Do you know exactly when?”  
His avid interest in this was making her uncomfortable at the prospect of having a father in Azkaban for tracking down and killing babies.  
“Late 1926, most likely, since Harry mentioned that he was a winter child.” She shrunk back a bit from Sirius’s burning gaze, “He’s an orphan. So maybe we can check both his father’s place and the orphanage?”  
“Which orphanage?”  
“Gee. I don’t know. Can you look it up from the Ministry or Hogwarts’ list of magical students?” She was annoyed and embarrassed there were things that she didn’t know. “And I’m more interested in what you intend to do after finding him, anyway. Do we just kill him?”  
He shook his head, looking contemplative with a hand under his chin.  
“You might feel that way now, Hermione, but it is quite difficult to actually kill a baby.” He gave her an indecipherable look, “I have killed before, and still I’m not certain that I can point my wand at a baby and feel alright after that.”  
“Even if that baby is Voldemort?”  
“... Even then.”  
“So?”  
A beat of silence. Sirius looked constipated, or unattractively thoughtful as he chew out a few words in a slow and agonising way:  
“...What do you think if we just adopt him?”  
She stared at him and felt as if she was, for the very first time, looking at someone who was having a psychotic breakdown and found it absolutely fascinating. Hermione could not help it, she bursted out laughing:  
“So that’s where you intend to go, eh? The redemption route?” She did not believe that Voldemort was absolute evil by nature, true. But she had believed that he was born fully equipped of his own brand of viciousness and ambition that no amount of soft words or loving hands would be able to dull. He would never be redeemed. He could not. How could Sirius even suggest such a thing? She was near hysterical now. “Adopt him, and what? Raise him? Merlin forbid, love him?” A hollow laugh escaped her throat, “I don’t think I can love him, father.” She looked at him, eyes sad, “Can you?”  
Because for her, it was only the pain on her chest, Harry’s nightmare, Harry’s loneliness, and her frustration at the injustice and discrimination against herself and Muggleborns. For him, though, it was James, it was Lily, it was Regulus, it was twelve years in Azkaban, it was even Bellatrix, most likely. With that much he had against Voldemort, could he possibly love Tom Riddle, even when the thing was only a baby?  
And without love, how could they even hope to raise him into proper human being that doesn’t possess homicidal tendencies?  
Sirius was thunderous in the face now, the mention of his dead loved ones seemed like powerful blows on his state of mind. Gritting his teeth, her father concluded the conversation and stood up abruptly:  
“We will see once we look at him for real, no? Rest now, Hermione. I will visit you later.”  
He left the room in three long strides and slam the door behind him with a great force, leaving her alone with her turbulent thoughts. 

* * *

Three mornings later, the Blacks, in all their glory, barged into her hospital room with great fanfare and pomposity. Arcturus Black bursted in first, nose scrunching and eyebrows knitting in the familiar aristocratic disdain that made Hermione want to Diffindo them into oblivion just to see how he would react. Then came two young women that was later introduced as Lucretia and Cassiopeia Black, haughty but curious in their bouncing steps. A bunch of middle aged Blacks filed in after them, scanning the room with critical eyes and disapproving huffs. They all stopped to give deferent nods to a frowning old man with strict grey eyes, black hair combed back, and features so similar to Sirius’s that the harsh arrangement of them startled her a bit. Lucretia Black, sultry and fatuous in her loftiness, opened the conversation without the expected greetings:  
“You are the daughter of that so-called Sirius Black?” She studied Hermione (gaunt, weak, and somewhat listless due to being confined in the room for so long) for all but a second before whipping her head back and tittered, her voice a sing-song, “She doesn’t look at all like a Black, grandfather.”  
Hermione’s bitch-detecting instinct kicked in and she straightened her back, narrowed her eyes and threw a comeback right back at the black-hair woman:  
“And you don’t look at all like an uncivilised pillock. But first impressions tend to be misleading.”  
Both women glowered at her and seemed ready to punish Hermione for such impudence. Fortunately (for them, the poor bints), her father marched into the room at that exact moment, pushed the people crowding the door aside and smoothly inserted himself between her bed and the glaring Blacks. His face was a stony mask and his hand rested reassuringly on her arm. After checking for certain that she was fine (please, it would take five times of them to give her any kind of trouble), he turned to ask the intruders:  
“What is the meaning of this?”  
There were a stunned silence that followed his words. As the Black family members took in his face, his gait, and his tone, they all had a thunderstruck look on their faces, as if they had come here with the sole purpose of exposing the imposter and condemning him to the deepest level of hell, but were thwarted by the appearance of someone who were undeniably a relative standing tall and all disapproval at their conducts. The oldest man, Sirius Black II - she presumed - took an uncertain step toward them, eyes glistening and voice cracking:  
“... Uncle!”  
A swift exchange of look later (and she saw that, by the way), other members of his family also cried out in various degrees of melodrama:  
“Uncle!”  
“Grand-uncle!”  
Her father’s eyes shone at the hilarity of the situation and Hermione could feel her face swelling up in an embarrassed blush. What kind of farce is this?  
They stepped out of the room to discuss things without affecting her healing progress. She was a bit irked that she wasn’t included in the conversation, but comforting herself that there were only so much exposure to the superciliousness of the Blacks she could take a day anyway.  
When Sirius came back later, she inquired as innocently as she could:  
“Have I been having the wrong idea about the Blacks all these times? Seeing them snivelling over you like that, maybe they are actually softies at heart and they love their family very much?”  
Even she would want to laugh at this hypothesis.  
Sirius did laugh, though in a self-depreciating way:  
“Hah! As if! They cried over the bloody fact that they have a time-traveller in their family now. A conqueror of death and supposed changer of time. They welcome me because they believe that would make me more likely to share my secrets and contribute to the glory of the family.”  
She squeezed his hand comfortingly:  
“And still you want to be included in their ranks during this time period.”  
He sighed but only shrugged:  
“They might be toerags, but they are powerful toerags. If not for their names, you and I would both have been detained and dissected in the Department of Mysteries with no one the wiser. If not for the fact that your name is Black, you would have to line up until next week before treatment comes. St.Mungo is bursting with the wounded and the hysterical, after all.”  
So that was the true reason why he admitted himself to be a Black back then. True, if they had reappeared anywhere else, things wouldn’t have been that bad. But they appeared instead in the middle of the Ministry, looking like criminals and attacking officers. Of course he would have to use the influential Black name to get them out of it.  
“What does he want, the Head of House of Black?” She asked, sighing herself.  
Her father blinked owlishly at her and smiled widely (and falsely, too, though she humoured him):  
“Nothing of importance.” He patted her head and said cheerfully, “By the way, I found out where our little Voldy is.”  
That got her attention. She bounced with excitement:  
“Oh? So fast? How did you...?”  
Sirius only gave her a secretive smile that was surprisingly indulgent:  
“I have my sources.”

* * *

 Wool’s Orphanage was a dreary place. Grey walls, grey uniforms, grey-faced orphans and grey-eyed matron. Mrs.Cole, sharp and stank of cheap wine as she was, was welcoming enough that Hermione had to refrain from berating the woman harshly for being drunk in the middle of the day while her charges were looking both starved and perpetually nervous. Though it was rather annoying that the woman kept craning her skinny neck up to secretly sneak glances at her father, cheek flushing and words stumbling. Sometimes Hermione wished that Sirius was still the grumpy old person he had been before, she would never have been subjected to women falling for him left and right like this.  
“... He’s a quiet baby. You’ll see.” Mrs.Cole was saying, hiccuping a bit but tried to cover it with her hand, “The poor thing. His mother died in this very room, you know. Barely even looked at him. The labor was so difficult, too. If you ask me, the father must have been a right scoundrel, not even come looking once. He’s such a beautiful baby, too...”  
And on and on she went. If he had had to face this kind of rambling nonsenses and gloomy atmosphere for over a decade, no wonder Tom Riddle turned out so messed up. She still did not approve of any of his choices, but even Hermione had to admit that this was a horrible environment to grow up in. She wouldn’t want this for any child. Even the Dark Lord.  
They entered a relatively large room with a bed near the door and several tattered cradles positioned near the hearth. Ignoring the startling jump of a hassled woman hoisting a baby in his arm near the window, Mrs.Cole led them straight to the cradle furthest away from the door. At Sirius’s questioning look, she shrugged embarrassedly:  
“He’s so quiet. It just seems to us that he requires less attention than the others...” She trailed off before shutting her mouth abruptly at the scowl on his face.  
They moved closer to the crib, staring down at the sleeping baby inside it.  
Hello there, little Dark Lord. Hermione said quietly in her head. Such a small thing. Such a pretty thing. Such a breakable thing. Harry’s face when he crumpled in pain due to his unwanted connection with Voldemort flashed in her mind. His forced smile at every Christmas, when she returned to her family and he had none to go back to. His tears as he cradled Cedric Diggory’s body in his arms. His shattered scream the moment Sirius and she got pushed into the Veil.  
Then the baby opened his eyes, yawned and stared at her with hazy, sleepy eyes, and all her built-up rage scattered into sands. Beside her, Sirius was gripping the crib too hard, but he said then, with a hoarse voice:  
“Thank you, Mrs.Cole. He is...perfect. Please help me with the paperwork.”  
And so, in a windy day of early April 1927, Hermione Lyra Black (still a ridiculous name) had herself a baby brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this is a somewhat long A/N about the issue with one of my pairing [SiriusxBellatrix]. There has been questions about it, so I would like to clarify it a bit.  
> First, about Sirius’s words in the last chapter about Bellatrix being his ‘intended’. To me, this is something probable, even in canon. Sirius was the oldest male child of that particular Black generation, which made him the de facto Heir to the family. With the Black family being what it was (old-fashioned, creepy inbreeding brood of people), it was very likely that there might have been informal talks about his future betrothal to one of his cousins -who, if you consider the likes of Orion and Walburga, wasn’t that close in blood by any means. Entered Bellatrix, who was an epitome of the Great and Noble House of Black and would be the most likely to approve of the adults’ decision with zeal. Being eight years older than Sirius, she might have welcomed the match and taken it upon herself to school all of her younger siblings about what it means to be a Black, including possible marriage between each other as a mean to keep the blood ‘pure’.  
> Which brings me to second point: The ‘thing’ between Sirius and Bellatrix in my fic. Yes, Sirius hated all things Black - the House, the people, the bigotry, etc., and that point has been demonstrated clearly as early as the time he was eleven and riding the train with James before their first year. However, if one considers that he had spent the earliest (most impressionable) eleven years in the small world of the Black family, whereupon most of his quality time were spent with his brother and cousins, then it wouldn’t come as a surprise if he had complicated feelings concerning these cousins and brother. Especially if Bellatrix were playing the oldest sister -possibly-fiancée-card and forcing her beliefs onto her supposed betrothed, then at one point, Sirius might have felt close to her, and more relatable to her than anyone else in the family. Until his innocence receded and her dutiful family-oriented teachings became zealous harangue to his ears. I think the thing he loved the most in life would be his freedom, not his humane outlook of life or progressive thinking, as some might believe. The first time he rebelled against his family must be because he felt like a caged animal living with the Blacks, then after getting into Gryffindor and being friends with the remaining Marauders, he could shape other uneasiness he feels in his family into actual differences in beliefs. But yes, I think a part of him, the tiny brainwashed part of the earliest eleven years, would still retain complicated feelings about those of his generation within the family, Bellatrix included. That it might turn into something more depended entirely on Bellatrix’s attitudes towards him. In her part, I think she loved her beliefs the most. The fact that she fell for Voldermort in canon is an evidence of this. She would love those who complement her blood-purist beliefs the most. In the canon, that’s Voldy. In my fic, that’s her young cousin whose betrothal to her would make them the purest, most powerful couple and the Blackest of Black. And then that cousin just had to rebel and got himself in to bloody Gryffindor. She was outraged, and betrayed, and hurt. But eleven years of love, care and expectations wouldn’t disappear so easily. She entered a state wherein she both hated him and had an unwelcome soft spot for him. Since it was a love-hate relationship I am talking about, I feel that something would have happened between them once he reached puberty and the betrothal between Bellatrix and Rodolphus was finalized. I could write a oneshot about it if anyone wants more details, but yes, I believe the probability of hate sex or moments of weakness is pretty high.  
> That, and the fact that they look pretty together and I just plainly like them that I didn’t really think about how strange and gross this couple was to many people. It is a crack fic, so I figured, ‘Why not?’.  
> If anyone still want to discuss this couple or any other points of the story, please leave a review or inbox me. I will try to answer it to the best of my (limited) linguistic skill.  
> Have a good read, everyone!


	4. How to Train Your Dark Lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was an impossible crusade, raising a Dark Lord. He was insufferable in diaper, obstinate when potty-trained, and a homicidal horror at terrible twos. She felt almost in her perimenopause by his third birthday, despite barely entering the spring of her twenties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter Series and its extensive franchise belong exclusively to J.K.Rowling and all the parties that she happened to allow copyright. I own none of the characters, nor the settings, nor some of the quotes from the fifth book. I'm just playing around a bit with her characters within her HP world.

It was an impossible crusade, raising a Dark Lord. He was insufferable in diaper, obstinate when potty-trained, and a homicidal horror at terrible twos. She felt almost in her perimenopause by his third birthday, despite barely entering the spring of her twenties.

 

Tom Marvolo Riddle was a quiet child. Quiet and creepy, especially the way that he kept his indecipherable eyes (It’s baby’s eyes, she reasoned, what is there to decipher?) strain on her every bloody minute that he wasn’t sleeping. He stared unblinkingly at her when she picked him up (clumsily, but learning), he frowned at her when she shove the bottle of milk into his mouth (ungrateful little brat), and he downright glared at her many poor attempts at soothing him to sleep. It was not her fault her voice was not melodic, and it was even less her fault that she never thought to memorise lullabies of higher quality than whatever her parents had hummed to her once upon a time. Baby Voldemort just had too high a standard, she thought. So demanding, she grumbled, for one who had only been able to open his eyes just a few months ago. Though he rarely cried (sure, it must be beneath a dark lord to bubble in tears like a normal human being at the infantile stage), he huffed often, and with such blood-boiling superior air that Hermione had half a mind to throw him out of the window and be done with it. In the end, though, she never found it within herself to actually do it.

Maybe it was because he was also a beautiful baby, unbelievably so. Large cobalt-colored eyes that appeared more black than blue, unmarred cherubic cheeks, tiny nose and mouth that bespoke of undeniably good breeding and screamed of unholy symmetry in the future (unless he was one of those unfortunate enough to suffer from a failed puberty). A few months in and already she had a future heartbreaking scoundrel on hand. Vaguely, she remembered in amusement that the Voldemort of her time was a known asexual narcissist who probably found sex a confusing thing and a penis a redundant biological part that served no particular purpose other than going to the toilet. Maliciously, she vowed to bring him up to be a salacious young man that would cavort anything and anyone under the sun until dying and/or being confined to bed from a horrible case of STD. That would surely deter him from amassing his evil army, propagating his discriminatory ideals, and slaughtering innocent people for the heck of it.

She rethought it, of course. She wasn’t _that_ evil.

The bell chimed midnight, and in the cradle by the fireplace, Tom gave an annoyed cry and moved his arms in mighty arcs. Hermione had no doubt he would purposefully howl at the top of his lungs if she did not appear in his field of vision in the next ten seconds. Scowling, she staggered out of her seat by the window, the book forgotten on the windowsill. She was somewhat used to it by now. The very first time Hermione had been sleeping and ignoring the bundle of horror in the crib at the foot of her bed, Tom had allowed exact ten seconds of mild fussing before exploding into screams and howls the likes of which could raise the dead. When she had scrambled to him in sheer panic, the baby had looked straight into her eyes and continued howling tearlessly for another five minutes until she had fairly been half-crazed bouncing him on her arms. He had sounded like he was crying, but there had not been any tears. The sound had been murderous, though, leading her to conclude that he had purposefully made it just to punish her lack of punctuality and attentiveness to him.

Breathing a long suffering sigh, Hermione bent down to gather him in her arms. The huffing stopped instantly. The baby was looking up at her, once more silent and watching. After frantically checking his diaper and ascertaining that it was still clean, Hermione shushed him lightly, before leaving him in his crib just a bit to make a bottle of formula. Shoving the bottle of milk into his mouth, she frowned at him:

“I hate you.”

He narrowed his (pretty) eyes at her, but deigned the statement too stupid to warrant a reaction and started sucking without complaints. She sighed but lap held him carefully as she sat down on her chair and stared out of the window.

They were living in a cottage near the sea, though calling the place a cottage was a vast understatement, considering how uselessly huge it was. Three floors sans attic, grand sitting room, one kitchen fully equipped with distressing tools that Hermione had nightmares trying to learn how to use (the fundamentals of _cooking,_ oh, the horror!), four bedrooms, one of which was the master bedroom with needlessly extravagant bed and furnitures that even Sirius got creeped out staying in it for more than one night, and three other bedrooms that were furnished in that cheesy gothic style that made even the House at Grimmauld Place seemed moderate (She would know. They were invited to stay there for two nights and Merlin’s cotton socks that place in the 20s was frilly and tenebrous.) This was actually one of the many real estates under the Black name, and the barely-concealed disdain with which Arcturus Black had looked at them when he handed her father the key to the cottage had had Sirius bursting several blood vessels out of justifiable indignation and him swearing (privately, to her, because even he wasn’t _that_ tactless) to Merlin that he would earn back the money and slap the sack of Galleons into the bloody tosser’s face as soon as possible.

“How?” She had asked, more than a bit surprised, “Have you found a job already?” That was fast. It had never occurred to her that her father were _that_ resourceful.

He had looked distractingly at the key to the cottage as if by staring at it enough he could see his owner and burn his face off with the sheer power of his blazing eyes.

“...Hm? Ah yes. The Unspeakables recruited me the other day.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione had been outraged. How come this important piece of information had only reached her ears now?

Sirius had looked up, finally, at her tone:

“It’s not that important. And you have just waken up for only a few days.”

Hermione, being his daughter who should really have been informed much sooner, had made to protest and to press him for more information as to how this boggling arrangement came to be. Sirius had cut her off in a tired and dismissive way, though, making perfectly clear that he would be a textbook Unspeakable and would not divulge any secrets even to his own daughter. She had left it at that, but had resolved to ambush him one of these days and find out whatever it was he had been hiding.

On her arms, baby Tom were fussing now, pushing the empty bottle of milk away andarcing his back in that annoyed way of his. He was nearly six-month old now, and though Hermione knew for a certain that he had been trying, and occasionally succeeding in trying to sit up with support, she had still never caught him voluntarily turning himself in front of the audience. At first, after reading a great number of books on parenting and babies’ development stages, she had been worried that the kid was underdeveloped (and wouldn’t _that_ be a fascinating irony), seeing as at four-month going on five-month, he still hadn’t shown any indication of turning himself, and only ever stared at her with those semi-disgusted eyes every time she tried to encourage him (in a very very _horrific_ cooing voice) to do so. Her worry seemed to be ill-founded, after all, seeing as she caught him turning, no, rolling himself around, really, on her bed one pleasant day when she left him there (with pillow barriers near the edges) to find the little toy Sirius bought him just the other day. When she returned and witnessed his antics through the crack of the barely opening door, she had to stifled a laugh and made a great deal of noise before pushing the door fully open and entered. Just as she suspected, the kid had rolled himself back into a respectable position and was looking up at the cellar in a bored manner as if he had never moved an inch. The Dark Lord must have found wiggling around like a worm too undignified for someone such as him and thus only did so in the privacy of himself and the four walls.

Cleaning up after his meal, Hermione changed his diaper again and cuddled him close as she looked back outside the window. Sirius hadn’t been back yet. He was held up at the Ministry everyday now, coming back with dark circles under his eyes and faint smile filled with exhaustion. She had asked, of course she did, but he made it clear that what he was doing (or having been done to, as Hermione had been worried about) would not be a topic of discussion at the dinner table.

As if her disgruntled thoughts could summon him, Sirius appeared a few feet away from the door with a loud ‘pop’, windswept hair looking wilder than usual and eyes blazing with something akin to exhilaration. He has adamantly refused to register this house into the Ministry Floo’s Connection, grumbling about ‘busybodies stalking respectable citizens’ and ‘bloody control freaks with espionage tendencies’. And so instead he had been Apparating to and fro the Ministry and complaining about backache and claustrophobia every once in a while.

Dinner that night was an eventful affair, what with baby Tom throwing a tantrum at being forced to bed early (other babies screamed and yowled and cried when having a tantrum, her baby bursted lamps and shattered windows and quaked the house with accidental magic), Sirius unveiling his new gift to Tom in the form of a very hairy rabbit (she had no idea what he was thinking, the house consisted of a dog-person, a cat-person and a snake-person after all), and Hermione bringing up the sore topic of her uncertain education prospect.

“I need to know, Sirius.” She was putting her fork down now, looking seriously at her father, “It is June already and I need to know if I’m going to Hogwarts in the next few months.”

Sirius stopped eating, swallowing with more force than she would have recommended, and said slowly:

“... I am working on it.”

Her temper flared. Yes, she knew already that someone had to take care of Voldy, and her being half a country away for more than ten months of the year would leave him in the disreputable hand of Sirius Black III. Yes, she had an inkling that the Ministry wouldn’t let them go about doing whatever it was that they want so easily. Yes, she was certainly aware of the risk that her real time period would be exposed once she interacted with the herd of opinionated hormonal adolescents for a long period of time. She knew all that. But Merlin above, she just wanted to finish her education! That was all. The perfectionist in Hermione was getting hysterical at the prospect of having a curriculum vitae with ‘Unfinished Secondary Education’ branded on it.

“How? How are you working on it?” She demanded, teeth gritting, “Father, is this one of the things that the Blacks have over us? Why would they care about whether I go to school or not?”

Sirius slowly put another piece of fish into his mouth, chewing calmly:

“Because you will be a sensation, Hermione. Talks of mysterious time-traveling Blacks have already been circulating. That is not what they want to encourage. Besides, they have no idea how well you will do with arrogant purebloods poking their noses into your business.”

“In other words, they find me inadequate and believe that I will be an embarrassment to the family. Is that it?”

He was swallowing now, still so disturbingly calm that it made her want to poke him with a fork just to see him jump.

“That, too, but the thing I’m working on is with the Ministry.”

That proved all her suspicions were true, then.

“Father,” She felt calmer now, but her heart ached and her stomach roiled, “Are you really working at the Department of Mysteries, or are you being monitored there?”

He stopped, blinked at her, and gave a small smile:

“A little bit of both, love. I was recruited both because of my qualities and because they want me in a position where they can legitimately monitor me.”

“You said being Blacks save us from that.” She ignored how petulant she was being. She was sixteen, she had every right to be juvenile once in a while.

He shrugged, looking too uncaring for someone who were probably being probed and experimented on day after day:

“Not being Blacks means that they don’t even need legitimacy to put both of us on an examination table, that they have no compunction to inform the public of our existence, or decapitation when they are done with us. Not being Blacks also means that we don’t need a house, because we will not be considered existing, or proper human beings. It also means that we could never have been able to adopt Voldy, and that I would have no chance to even negotiate the possibility of you going to Hogwarts, since I would be too busy finding out drastic ways with which we can kill them all and escape in glorious explosions.” He looked her in the eyes now, face bland but serious, “Understand now, daughter? We are unauthorized time-travelers with no outward proofs of our allegiance or identities. We aren’t having a lot of choices, true, but we’re still having much more choices than if we have denounced our relations to the Blacks.”

Hermione grumpily picked up her forks after that, shoving food into her mouth with more zeal than necessary. Sighing, she conceded:

“Never mind, father. I need to stay home to deal with Tom, anyway. You’re busy...working and nannies of the wizarding kind are not at all trustworthy.” She hesitated, just for a bit, “But I can at least take the N.E.W.T.s. in the next two years, no? I can study on my own.”

For a startling moment, Sirius had an ashamed look on his face. It passed quickly, though, and he gave her a tight and sad smile:

“Of course, Hermione. Let’s go buy you books this weekend.”

In spite of his grueling schedule, Sirius always made sure that he spent one hour per day talking (or disciplining, as he put it) privately with baby Tom. Today was the same, even though the Dark Lord was still feeling indignant for being forced to sleep before and Sirius still seemed shame-faced from the discussion at the dinner table. Hermione never know what exactly Sirius was doing with Baby Tom, but seeing the dazed look the kid always sported after the session, and reconsidering her father questionable sense of morality, she half suspected that Sirius was actually the one going through with the STD plan. Today was one of the worse days, though, as little Voldy didn’t just look dazed, he had this constipated expression on his face that projected either the verge of tears or the fabulously loud explosions of gas (somehow _that_ was not beneath the Dark Lord). As if wanting to take revenge on his torturers, Tom did not immediately reach for her like always, but gritting his teeth on Sirius’s arms and opted for the second option. The sound was echoing, the smell was interesting, and Sirius’s face turned into a magnificent color of purple. She snatched the baby back before her father could explode in everyone’s face.

* * *

 

Tom Riddle spoke first, before even started walking. His first word was, in fact, ‘Wanker’, when he saw the picture of the Minister of Magic spitting passionately on the Daily Prophet Hermione left near his seat. For her part, Hermione dropped the pan she was washing to the floor in astonishment, and thanked Merlin Sirius was home that day because she could not help feeing an overwhelming urge to deal him a withering glare because who else would Tom had learned that unsophisticated word from? Now she knew what her father was doing to the baby behind closed door. In response to her reproachful gaze, Sirius only shrank back on the sofa and gave her a sheepish smile.

Ignoring the pan still full of soap, Hermione washed her hands quickly and picked Voldy up. He was getting heavy now, and even just helping hold him up to practice walking everyday made her arm ache. She should have exercised more often.

“Bad word, Tom! You don’t call people that to their face.” She scolded him.

“You only call them that behind their back.” Sirius inputted unhelpfully from his position on the sofa.

Hermione could actually felt a blood vessel being bursted open from her aggravation. She glowered at her father:

“You! Shut up!”

Jostling the boy again, she held Tom’s eyes seriously:

“Bad. Word. Understood?”

The infant stared back at her, eyes dark and thoughtful, black lashes fluttered just a bit (Was this a honeytrap? Wasn’t he a bit too young for this?). Then he tilted his head in that semi-innocent way of his (Alert! This was _definitely_ a honeytrap!) and said, very clearly, his second (and third, and fourth) word:

“...stick. In. Mud.”

Sirius roared with laughter, Hermione went full scarlet, Tom gave a satisfied huff, and Bobby the rabbit threw himself off of the fleet of stairs.

* * *

 

“It couldn’t be him.” She was saying, her voice distressed and her demeanor tight, “He... he’s too young, Sirius. And why would he even do that?”

Sirius, too, looked like someone had ran a car over him, backtracked on his dead body, then ran over him again.

“Then the rabbit is just suicidal by nature, Hermione? And I thought you would know Riddle better than that? He blasted off windows and induced mild earthquake over a little tantrum! What would stop him from accidentally Imperio-ing a rabbit into suicide over his exhilaration of saying the first words?”

Because that would just be too scary, she thought, even for him. He was barely one year old and could already wandlessly command a living being to kill itself? She refused to believe in such a thing!

“What kind of accidental magic do that, Sirius? Mine was only ever smashing books on bullies’ head and creating small swirl of wind to blast leaves into the air. And the youngest my parents could remember me doing any of that was three, four years old!” Her voice was turning hysterical, “Sirius! I don’t think we are doing this right! The first time around, he grew up in Wool’s and there weren’t any incidents of mild earthquakes or window blasting or rabbit jumping to their death when he was a baby! We _are_ making it worse!”

She should calm down, she told herself, or Baby Tom would wake up and the situation would deteriorate even more. Sirius messes up his own hair angrily, and asserted:

“There were or there weren’t, we could never know for certain. Perhaps it just wasn’t recorded.” Taking a deep breath, he ceased his endless moving about and looked at her, “Or maybe being exposed to magic so much earlier in life made his awareness and grasp of it more securely. You and I both waved our wands a fair amount of time everyday, in front of him.”

Hermione, too, sat down on the sofa and gave a miserable sigh:

“Father, at this stage, do you think the problem is the terribly high level of magic he has been using, or the fact that there are enough screws loose in his head for him to kill rabbits on a whim?”

Her father shook his head, still looking agitated:

“... Maybe he didn’t mean to kill the rabbit. He was too happy, so maybe he wanted it to jump with joy, just like he was.”

She gave him a disbelieving look:

“And Bobby was just stupid enough to jump down the fleet of stairs instead of jostling up and down? Or was he just bad at landing? A defective eye, perhaps?”

Sirius glared at his hands, as if the answer could automatically pop out of the palms of his hands if he stared at it long enough. In the end, he only sighed heavily and concluded:

“I don’t know, Hermione. But we really should wish that this was the case.” He stood up, dragging a hand across his eyes, “If not, daughter, I think we need to steel ourselves to kill him in the next few years.”

* * *

 

After the Bobby Incident, Hermione and Sirius both resolved to act as if nothing had happened, though Hermione endeavoured to start reading pious and educational fairy tales to Tom as often as possible, and Sirius took care not to bring back any other living thing as pet anymore. To a point, it did seem that nothing had really happened that day. Baby Tom grew up healthy, talking well, eating well, sleeping well, walking and running about well. Potty training him were an awkward affairs, though, because he kept looking back and forth at her and the pot with dispassionate unimpressed expression (She should stop over-analysing him, she knew, but he made it so difficult!). After being fed up with explaining to him what to do (to no avail, by the way), Hermione reached to tug his pants down, but were stopped when he squealed and shoved her hands away. That made her laugh:

“Okay, fine! You do it yourself then.” 

Somehow, they got through it pleasantly enough.

But then, before she could allow herself to breathe out a sigh of relief, the little Dark Lord entered his Terrible Twos.

Normal toddlers rebelled against their parents by screaming in public, spitting food back up at dinner time, and running buck naked around to horrify the neighbours and embarrass their caretakers. Her toddler opted to rebelled by burning her books at random intervals, calling snakes into the house and having them hide at random places (to give her heart attacks of various degrees), and magicking the neighbourhood’s dogs into tearing each other apart after they barked too much into the night. And though she was not a dog person, she drew a line at that.

“Tom. You have to stop killing living beings.” She told him one fine morning near his third birthday, stooping down and holding him in place, “No commanding them to jump to their death! No having snakes eat them and Merlin forbid no magicking them into fighting and killing each other!”

He stared at her, chubby cheeks seemed incongruous with his contemplative face:

“... living beings?”

It was creepy how he nearly never pronounced a word wrong, but they got used to it.

“Anything that breathe, walk, eat, fly, or swim.” She answered, still making sure that he met her eyes.

He narrowed his eyes and grumbled in his childish voice:

“Like Bobby?”

“Yes. And the dogs next door, and the strays your snakes left on the porch. And Sirius. And I.”

He didn’t react to Sirius or her name, but did grunt at the other animals in question:

“Bobby is clingy. The dogs are noisy. The strays are dirty.”

He said it with so much conviction, as if those were enough justification to kill the poor things. In short, her toddler killed animals just because they annoyed him. She wondered mildly when he would graduate from animals-killing and progress to human-extermination.

Saying ‘it’s bad’ or ‘it’s horrible’, or even ‘I don’t like kids that kill things’ to him would just induce more confusion and cynicism, the creepy natural psychopath. Hermione felt the sudden and inexplicable urge to smash her head into the wall. She refrained, though, such wonderful patience she had. Instead, she took a deep breath, and said slowly:

“Tom, listen to me. Living things will die without us killing them. Investing time and efforts into doing so will just dirty our hands.” She took another deep breath at his unimpressed expression, “Tom. The things that annoy you, they are like poops. They smell, they’re gross, they’re difficult to ignore, but do you want to clean up poops?”

His chubby cheeks were of a distinct pallid colour now, and he shook his head vehemently:

“Ew.”

Finally! Seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, Hermione cracked a smile:

“Yes. Ew. So the next time you don’t like something, you tell me, or Sirius, or try to ignore it and do something else.” Something healthy and not homicidal, she added in her head.

Tom still seemed dubious, but he nodded anyway. Let’s all hope that this innocent fear of poops will at least survive until he turns five. She would have to think of a better explanation by then.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: First, I'd like to thank all of those who have reviewed, bookmarked or left kudos on my story. Your opinions make my day. I will try not to disappoint you.   
> Second, in case anyone still has questions regarding the way I portrayed the young Tom Riddle (too cruel, too precocious), I'd like to clear up something. The Bobby Incident wasn't necessarily his first murder case, it really was an accident in which his emotions affected the rabbit and it jumped off the fleet of stairs. However, it is the first time little Tom had an inkling of what 'death' is and by that point, he felt absolutely no shame, or shock, or uneasiness (which were the basic and most reasonable reaction children tend to have once they realise that they have accidentally killed something). So yes, he didn't purposefully kill the thing, but he didn't grieve for it either. In fact, he even use this incident as a standard way of dealing with things that annoy him later (the strays, the dogs) - useful: keep; not useful (dirty, loud, annoying, nuisance, etc.): make them disappear, or just plainly not care once they do. He wasn't born a ray of sunshine, sure, but I will not describe him as absolute evil or twisted beyond repair (still twisted, but marginally repairable, by this point, at least).


	5. Of Debuts and Morons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom Riddle decided that he was a good kid, in spite of Hermione’s occasional grumbles otherwise. He handled his first debut into society well, he did not torture any animals, he talked to snakes only twice, he refrained from bullying other kids (too much), he even dutifully screamed ‘rape’ at random strangers who reached for him. By all standards, he should received a medal for a job well-done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter Series and its extensive franchise belong exclusively to J.K.Rowling and all the parties that she happened to allow copyright. I own none of the characters, nor the settings, nor some of the quotes from the fifth book. I'm just playing around a bit with her characters within her HP world.
> 
> A/N: Apologies, everyone, for updating so late. Tom's POV was a pain, though, and I'm still not quite certain I'm doing him enough justice.  
> Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

Tom Riddle decided that he was a good kid, in spite of Hermione’s occasional grumbles otherwise. He handled his first debut into society well, he did not torture any animals, he talked to snakes only twice, he refrained from bullying other kids (too much), he even dutifully screamed ‘rape’ at random strangers who reached for him. By all standards, he should received a medal for a job well-done.

 

At the tender age of three and a half, even Tom Marvolo Riddle had to admit that he had a pretty good life.

His caretakers -family, he remembered Sirius forcing him to refer to them as such - were accommodating. Sirius, though relatively absent, always made certain to ‘educate’ him on the complicated world outside in great details. He still didn’t understand everything the man had told him, nor was he certain of the meanings to these so-called lessons. He had an inkling now, though, now that even Hermione had started telling him nasty fairy tales wherein most villains or side characters with tragic ends somehow had a variation of his name (Tom, Thomas, Tommy, Tom-tom - what in the bloody hells???) in that awkward way of hers. Hermione was... His vocabulary was still too limited for him to think of an accurate way to describe her. But Hermione was...strange, to him. She was like a fixture in his small world. She was always there, taking care of even the smallest tasks relating to him, bathing, feeding, putting him to sleep, reading to him, teaching him how to limit his hyperactive accidental magic (her words, not his, because he knew for a certain that none of those were unintentional; but he humored her, that overly serious “sister” of his). She was...not unkind, even motherly at some points, and as protective of him as a mother hen whenever _situations_ between him and the neighbors arose (and because Tom had an outstanding sense of humour, those arose quite often). At the same time, Tom could feel that she was...distant, sometimes. He would do some random things (conversing with snakes, staring at the neighbor’s loud dogs with disgust, shifting through her tattered journal, etc.) at random moments, and she would pause and stare at him with a strange glint in her eyes. It wasn’t necessarily a hostile glint, but it was not a loving gaze, either, and at some points, it would almost look as if she was on the verge of tears (which was ridiculous, she was the one who told him that anyone above two year-old that still cry in front of other people were established nuisance to the general public). Tom didn’t want to admit it, but she made him nervous when that glint was in her eyes. Still, all things considered, Hermione was an acceptable guardian, and he got used to her enough that he couldn’t imagine a time when she would not be by his side.

His magic was incredible, strong (he felt strong, though both his guardians made sure to never discuss it in front of him, he caught the word ‘phenomenal’ one day when eavesdropping on them) and effective. The neighbors had magic, too, he had caught them going at it. It was nothing compared to his and Hermione’s and Sirius’s, though. Maybe that was why they requested him to never perform anything outside of the house. He found it uncalled for, seeing as none in his house had ever associated with these inferior people in the first place. Who cared what they think if his random burst of magic could make holes in the earth and shatter their stupid windows to smithereens? He could talk to snakes (even his guardians couldn’t), he could make things move in accordance to his will, he could force living beings into doing what he wanted (though Hermione hated it and her explanation made the entire experience disgusting), he could even create the occasional unnatural disasters with the barest shifts of his moods. Wonderful, indeed.

Tom had also never needed or wanted for anything. He did not understand hunger, did not registered pain, nor suffered any lack of conveniences in his three years of life. And so, the moment he was old enough to start contemplating the thing people called ‘life’, he had to conclude that in comparison to those in the books and the newspaper his guardians read to him, his was an excellent life.

Nevertheless, _something_ was lacking.

Something important.

* * *

“Let’s all join the Black’s soirée in the next few months.” Said Sirius, almost conversationally, while cutting a piece of burned beef (that was an improvement still, Tom noticed, Hermione was an appalling cook) and putting it into his mouth.

Tom used the moment to discreetly do away with the strange-smelling fish chowder Hermione put in front of him fifteen minutes ago.

She caught him, though, and stopped him in his track with a mild glare but burned at a near second-degree. Tom gave an innocent blink, straightened his back and braced for another mouthful of the food, still paying partial attention to the adults’ conversation.

“The Black dinner? The one flocked with purebloods and sycophants?” Hermione turned her attention back to Sirius, eyes narrowing.

The man swallowed quickly and gave her a bright smile. (Tom felt the hair at the back of his neck stood on ends at that, nothing good ever came about when Sirius bore that expression on his face.)

“Yes. That one, love. They want us there. You, me, and little Tom.”

Tom perked up at that. Was he finally meeting new people? Hermione stopped chewing and stared at Sirius (her first-degree burn stare, how unfair, why was fish chowder ranked higher than the Black’s dinner again?)

Again, he took the chance to discreetly vanish his fish chowder bits by bits before Hermione could notice it.

She asked, a bit miffed but somehow worried now:

“Tom? Why would they want to meet Tom? Why would they even want to meet _me_? They have never wanted to before!”

Sirius shrugged, shoving another piece of meat into his mouth:

“Their excuses are extensive this time. They want to meet the kid I adopted, even if that kid isn’t taking the Black name. That,” He swallowed, somehow more heavily than necessary, “and they want you to meet...er...prospective young men.”

Tom didn’t know which piece of information was more astounding to Hermione, but her fork fell and her knife was gripped _really_ hard in her hand _._ Tom forgot his fish chowder and asked, voice too loud in the oppressive silence of the aftermath:

“What’s ‘prospective young men’? And why don’t I have the same last name as yours?”

Sirius seemed almost relieved to turn his attention to Tom:

“It means young men the Blacks found suitable to be in-laws, suitable to marry Hermione, in other words. As for your last name, Blacks don’t register adopted children into their family tree, so I, we, have to let you keep your own last name.”

Tom put down his spoon grumpily:

“I don’t like my last name.”

Sirius shrugged again, not really apologetic:

“I don’t like mine, either. But we are what we are. Pretending otherwise is pointless, and cowardly.”

Tom was on the verge of arguing back, before something else he said registered in his mind.

“... Marry? What marry? Hermione is getting married? Why? Is she leaving us?” He was full on alarmed now. It was all well and good cheesy princes and incompetent princesses got married left and right. They were weird, more than a bit useless, and had nothing to do with Tom. But Hermione was not the same! Hermione was... Tom could not accept that she would leave him for any reason! Prospective young men or no. Anger rose unbiddenly and Tom suddenly had the urge to grind those so-called prospective young men to the ground. They could not take Hermione away if they were ten feet under.

The table started to shake.

“Tom!” Hermione was looking at him now, worry and warning etched on her face. If she got married, he would never be on the receiving end of such worry again. He would also never be forced to eat yucky food again, a tiny voice squeaked inside his head, never be subjected to boring fairytale time, never be berated for playing too hard with animals, never be separated from his snakes after a few hours per day, never had to go to sleep at nine, never had to feel dependent again, never... Even the light was flickering now, and Tom felt his heartbeats quickened. Never would he be tucked into bed with that throaty off-toned lullaby again, never would he have his hair combed with such gentleness, never would he be defended against the neighbors, never would he receive the occasional hugs when it was late and the silence of the night became too much for the both of them, never...

“Tom!” It was Sirius now, his voice harsh and his wand forced the air out of Tom’s lungs.

For a horrible moment, Tom was chocking and grasping for air. Hermione rushed to him, hugged him close and screamed something at Sirius. Tom couldn’t catch it, it hurt too much for that.

Then the pain stopped. Eyes closed tight, Tom drove further into Hermione’s embrace and grasped desperately for air. Hermione was still saying something to Sirius, her voice angry and her arms tightened around Tom. Sirius was saying something back, calmer and more collected than anyone could have imagine. Tom caught the end of it, though:

“...calm him down. Hermione, look. The ground is not shaking anymore.”

And it really wasn’t. The light was no longer flickering, either. 

Tom sneaked a glance at Sirius through the gap of Hermione’s embrace. The man’s grey eyes (which should be familiar to Tom) met Tom’s calmly and expressionlessly. Very expressionlessly. Tom had to refrain from flinching.

He had never tried his tricks on either Sirius or Hermione, but at that particular moment, Tom had a feeling that if he ever did, Sirius would make sure that to be the very last thing he ever did in life.

* * *

Tom felt a varying levels of disgust at himself for even thinking such things, but truly, after that hectic dinner, he had developed a healthy amount of fear for Sirius. Which shouldn’t be possible, seeing as he was powerful enough that even Sirius had to call ‘phenomenal’ at one point or the other. But he was also only three and a half years old, speaking in full but mostly halting sentences, running about but falling quite a lot, never wetting his bed but coming scarily close a few times. In other words, he was no match for the older man as of yet. 

He intended to correct the fact as soon as possible, though.

“Training?” Hermione gave him a semi-confused, semi-suspicious look, “What brought this about?”

“I can’t?” He asked, tilting his head in the way that she was so weak against.

Not this time, though, as Hermione only sighed and turned back to her book.

“Not in magic, no. You are too young for that.” She grumbled under her breath, “And I’m not qualified enough to teach you anyhow, unfinished secondary education and all.” She spoke the last part in a very small voice, but he could still catch the mounting discontent in it.

“But I want...” He started again, feeling impatient now.

She closed her book with a snap, then turned her full attention to him:

“Then again, there _is_ something you can be trained in right now. Important things, as well.” Picking him up (trying not to drop him all the way - really, he wasn’t that heavy), she put him in the seat in front of her, smiling in a very disconcerting way, “In manners and social conduct, Tom. Let’s turn you into a marvelous debutant and have the Blacks eat their own dirt.”

Goosebumps were evident on his skin now. Merlin, why did he feel like this was a pandemonium in the making?

* * *

Despite all the long-winded and terrifying hedging, in the end, Hermione’s special lessons in manners and social conducts could be summed up in only a few phrases: **No torture. No bully. No unnatural disaster. Scream ‘rape’ when strangers approach.**

Tom felt that he would do exceptionally, but Hermione had many doubts on that count, and kept making him practice by bringing him to the parks in the nearest towns. His first park debut was a disaster, proving her points, with him bringing half of the kids into tears, driving animals into a frenzy (all his new snake friends wanted to drop in and say ‘hi’), generating unnatural winds that blow off all the berries on the rowan trees within the vicinity (on the balding head of the major who happened to bring his daughter there on a whim), and creating widespread social panic when hollowing ‘rape’ at the major for trying to reach for him to talk about said berries and snakes. Hermione’s concise conclusion was “Well, at least you didn’t kill anything.” His second was better, though not by much, seeing as he _accidentally_ turned one of the playmates into a tree (half a tree, his legs became roots but his upper body was fine, kind of) when the stupid sod stepped on one of his snake friend, _incidentally_ let loose the horse nearby and had him trampling half of the pretty garden that a scowling middle-aged woman screeched at Tom to stay away from when he first arrived, but he did not scream ‘rape’ even once (though many people’s admiring gaze at his cute look gave him the creeps). After that, Hermione had given him the stinkiest stink eyes of the century and his portion of scrambled eggs (which was half burned) that night was doubled. His third and last was the best, since he knew the rope by now and made certain that none of the kids he bullied could ever dare to show their fear, the animals were silenced at a regular basis and only homeless people got branded with ‘rape’ at the top of his lungs. He was all geared up and ready for the Blacks’ dinner now, even Hermione had to admit so.

* * *

Hermione was a bloody liar. And he would have been tempted to set her pants on fire  if not for the fact that he liked her too much for that (and the fact that she was wearing a calf-length skirt and setting _that_ on fire would be uncultured of him). Such a liar. Nothing would have made him ready for the Blacks. For their overwhelming shamelessness and stupidity, that was. 

“What was you thinking? Having a Mudblood breathing within the same vicinity of our precious children!” One Arcturus Black were stage-whispering at Sirius, gesturing rudely at Tom’s general direction.

When they had just arrived, Tom was let loose on the ground with about a dozen other children, some with the signature black hair and grey eyes of the Blacks, and the other were a mixture of red head, blonde hair, or smattering brown nest, all with various degrees of disdain or overacted disgust for him. Normally, Tom would have taught them a gory lesson for that, but since he promised Hermione, and this _was_ his grand debut, he refrained. As their disdain were of a quiet sort, Tom opted to ignore them entirely and strained his ears to listening in on the adults. He caught little, since apparently Blacks frowned upon airing dirty laundry for all to see, but he could still get full sentences every once in a while. This was one of them. Though Tom didn’t really understand what ‘Mudblood’ meant, the way with which Arcturus Black spat the word out made it seem like an insult.

Debuts or no, Tom Riddle did not tolerate insult. And so the chandelier right above the old man’s head started creaking.

“Your father told me to bring him. And whoever said he was one anyhow?”

Sirius’s still hadn’t noticed anything. Oh well, Tom would try to have the chandelier swing the other way when it fall, then. Sirius would only have a few shallow scars at worst. But Arcturus Black, Tom’s nostrils flared and the creaking grew even louder, Arcturus Black needed to be splashed across the floor.

“I’m not talking about bringing him!” Said old man were gritting his teeth now, “I’m talking about the fact that he exists within our family in the first place! How many children did you have in the past for you to miss them so much you need a Mudblood as a replacement?”

Sirius bared his own teeth in a vicious snarl that startled Tom a bit (he had never seen that expression on him before).

“I told you to stop calling him that! And who do you think you are to question me like this?” Sirius advanced on Arcturus, making the older man gingerly retreated a step (Tom got mildly annoyed at Sirius by then. Did he not know how difficult it was to navigate the fall of a chandelier? What was it with all the moving about?), “This will be the last time you speak to me this way, _boy._ In this house, I don’t answer to anyone but your father. Understood?”

Then, impossible enough, Sirius reached into the (magicked) inner pocket of his suit, took out a _huge_ bag of Galleons, and smacked it across Arcturus Black’s astounded face.

“For the house.” Sirius said, before turning his back on the older man and walking out of the room.

Tom gawked at Sirius’s retreating back and Acrturus’s purple face, and forgot his chandelier entirely.

* * *

The silence treatment Tom had been receiving ended a few minutes after the last adults left the room. A long-faced, sickly boy with platinum blonde hair and a nose turned up so high it seemed as if he had a disease sauntered to the Tom, hands on hips and voice high pitching.  

“My mother said you are a Mudblood.” For someone only a year or two Tom’s senior, he seemed awfully full of himself, “But I say you are a Muggle. An orphaned Muggle that leeched off of an addled-mind fossil.”

A girl with straight black hair and a nose too big for her face rose unsteadily to her feet and stood behind this peacock boy, eyes gleaming in a vicious way as she inputted:

“Don’t want you here! Out! Get out!”

Now this had become entertaining, Tom thought, slouching even further into the cushion he was sitting on, eyes darkening but face upturning in a cocksure challenge. None of his park debuts had had this kind of situation before.

Even Hermione would have to make leeway if _they_ attacked first. He was almost anticipating it.

A red head girl his age was tugging at her dress nervously behind the audacious black hair girl, voice quivering:

“Do...on’t. We were told...not...not to talk to him.”

Ah, so this was a group bullying. Tom’s fingers twitched a bit in anticipation. Go on, now. Do something stupid.

Even the older children, flocking together on the other side of the room, were looking on now. Those of Tom’s age were crowded together behind the peacock boy, some with the same gleam as the big nose girl, one or two seemed terrified, but the majority of others were having that more or less confused look on their faces.

“Out!” The big nose kid screeched again, nose scrunching and eyes squinting. With how much she was resembling a swine right now, Tom thought that her parents should have worried more about her prospects in the future instead of teaching her how to ostracise people with no relations whatsoever to her. He might have said just that, if not for the peacock boy’s sudden grip on his collar:

“You will not stay within the same room as us. You will not breathe the same air as us. You will get out of here and find some corner to do whatever Muggle do on your own. And once the adults return, you will get back to that backwater ‘father’ and ‘sister’ of yours and tell them that you have had an excellent time here. Get it?”

From her place with the older kids, Dorea Black cleared her throats and cut him off in a warning tone:

“No calling Blacks names, Abraxas. Do what you want to the boy but let great uncle and cousin Lyra out of it.”

The boy, Abraxas, turned to her with an ugly twist on his face, hands still tugging at Tom’s collar:

“Please, Dorea. As if you all don’t find those two the epitome of bullshit. My mother said that you Blacks only want to have the reputation of having successful Time Travellers in your family.”

All the Blacks in the room had a thunderous expression on their faces (so that was what Sirius meant when he said Blacks don’t air dirty laundry for all to see, even Tom nearly got fooled into thinking that they actually cared about Sirius and Hermione), but before another argument could break out, Tom got fed up and air was cut off from Abraxas’s throat (he really should thank Sirius for the wonderful example). He did it casually but with such force that the other boy crumpled to the ground and started wheezing in pain. A beat of silence, then the room descended into panic. Big Nose screeched, Red Head squealed, the older children all started talking at once, and Tom shut the door, burned the bookshelves, and levitated all the books into vortexes that smacked everyone at least once across the face.

As their hysterics threatened to draw attention to the room, Tom stopped the books all at once and said, clearly and loudly:

“Silence.” He narrowed his eyes at the fumbling for either wands or magical items from some of the older kids, and had the books smacked them until they dropped it, “I’m going to talk to Abraxas now, and whoever interrupts it, with screams or stupid attempts at pitiful magic (and it was pitiful, from what he had seen so far; besides, there were only two kids old enough to have wands here.),” He looked each and everyone in the eyes, smiling in that sweet way that had Hermione eating out of his palm, “I’m going to have the chandelier fall down on that person’s head.”

Dorea Black was pale in the face, looking back and forth at Tom and the books near her face:

“It can’t be. You are too young!”

Tom had the books smacked her across the face, and gave her a Good Boy smile before stooping down to the wheezing heap that was Abraxas. The boy looked up at Tom with a mixture of defiance and fear. Tom assembles his expression into what Sirius had on his face the time he squeezed the air out of Tom’s lungs. Abraxas’s face lost it defiant touch immediately.

“I hate you.” Tom said, conversationally, “I enjoy hurting you.” His voice turned softer now, “It is up to you how frequent it is that I get to enjoy myself at your expense, no?”

Abraxas twitched, and Tom squeezed tighter. He started chocking. Tighter. And Abraxas nodded as vigorously as he could in that position. A moment of quiet enjoyment, then Abraxas gasped for air as Tom allowed him to breathe once more.

Ignoring him, Tom stood up, sat back down on his cushion, pried open a book and said while not looking at the other kids:

“We were having an amazing evening. The bookshelves burned because Big Nose accidentally set the candles on it, and all of you tried to save the books but wasn’t very orderly when doing that. Is that right?”

No answer. Tom looked up at them, eyes narrowing:

“Is that right?”

Dorea nodded, against her will but was too perturbed to object. The older kids looked at each other and nodded as well. The younger children was still torn between horror and confusion, but scooting close to each other and tried to hold back their tears. Tom took pity on them by opening the door, dropping all the books and saying calmly:

“Alright. You all can cry now.”

And so they did.

* * *

When the adults arrived, the younger children were bubbling in illegible terror, but each time a kid almost got close enough to nearly describe what had transpired, Dorea or one of the older kid would step in and deflected the questions. All was well, and Tom did his part just right by quietly and (somewhat) timidly rushed to Hermione’s side, tugging at her skirt and peering at the fray of people from behind his lashes. Ever since they had arrived, both Sirius and Hermione had stared straight at Tom with varying degrees of knowing gleam in their eyes. Specifically, Sirius seemed torn between being pleased and getting all judgy on Tom, whereas Hermione took one look at the situation and gave Tom a look that promised a year worth of fish chowder. Neither of them said anything, though, same principle of laundry applied. 

“Miss Black. Is your adopted brother alright?” A voice startled Tom out of his thoughts, as a well-dressed young man approached Hermione. He had dirty blonde hair and a smile so fake it could almost melt off his face. His eyes were too close together, and his nose looked awfully reminiscent of the opinionated girl from before.

From his place, Tom could see Hermione furrowed her brows and picked Tom up as an excuse not having to turn around to face the man.

“Mr. Nott.” She said, colder and duller than Tom had ever heard from her, “I imagine that Tom is distressed. I need to take him elsewhere to calm him off.”

As she moved to walk away, the Nott person grabbed her shoulder in a decidedly discourteous move:

“Apologies, lady. But I certainly do not see him being distressed in anyway.” He came even closer and whispered low enough that Tom imagined only the three of them would hear, “And you know the expectations our families have. In your position, refusing me would be most unwise, _lady_.”

He spoke the last word as if it was a mockery, and Tom could see Hermione going red from anger. Before she could let her rage exploded, Tom tugged at her hair (‘Ouch! Tom!’) and promptly set Nott’s robe on fire.

Needless to say, there were much drama going on after that.

In the midst of shouting and accusing, Tom managed to bury himself in Hermione’s arms to escape notice and be subjected to the additional pushiness that was Hermione’s other suitors. Feeling a bit tired from all the setting things on fire and smacking people with books and breaking chandeliers, Tom decided to scream ‘Rape’ instead. The effect was just as spectacular as he had expected it to be.

All the Notts and Prewetts and Bulstrodes were shamed beyond redemption now, Sirius told them later on the way back, smirk in place and wand twiddled in his hands.

“And Hermione, what’s with the long face? Do you not understand the magnitude of this soirée?” Sirius asked, taking Tom from her arms and swung the door open to enter their house.

“Magnitude?” Hermione was half crazed by then, hair crackling and teeth grinding, “Making fools out of us? Parading me like a piece of not very tasty meat? Insulting Tom in most horrible ways? Talking behind your back like you are a...! Father! What magnitude are you talking about?”

Sirius set Tom down on the sofa and taking off his robe, secret smile still in place:

“Don’t get stuck on the details, love. You two being there meaning that the informal house arrest has come to an end.”

Hermione gave him a blank look.

Sirius barked a laugh:

“Still haven’t gotten it yet, love? We can rejoin society now! You can go take your N.E.W.T now! Heck, you can even go back to school anytime you wish!”

Silence. Then Hermione started screeching:

“Yes! Yes! Four bloody years! Yes!”

They were both laughing now, so boisterous it crept Tom out a bit. Hermione even had tears in her eyes.

“I’m two years late of my right N.E.W.T age, but no matter! Finally!”

Sirius picked her up and laughed:

“I can finally go on proper missions! No more bleeding supervisors!”

“Yes! Yes! Oh this is wonderful, father! No more experiments on you, either!”

The night would have ended on that note, happy and wondrous. But then Tom’s souvenirs from the soirée just had to choose that exact moment to fell off from his pant pockets.

A few ‘clack’ sounds. Both Hermione and Sirius stopped and turn. And gawked at the things lying on the floor. And threw disbelieving looks at Tom.

Tom shrugged, somewhat sheepish:

“They were rude to me first.”

Tiny teeth of various sizes laid on the floor, and Tom imagined how the adults from the soirée would feel coming back home and noticing that each of their kids was lacking two teeth.

He really didn’t think that high society was ready for him just yet.


	6. A Day in the Life of Padfoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone got to witness first hand the distress that was Sirius’s A+ Parenting, the barmy town that was his profession, the queer intrusiveness that was an inherent trait of the Black family, and the questionable sexual preferences that was his potential fiancées’ fantasy. Just his luck that Tom also reached that age whereupon he started fancying himself a God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter Series and its extensive franchise belong exclusively to J.K.Rowling and all the parties that she happened to allow copyright. I own none of the characters, nor the settings, nor some of the quotes from the fifth book. I'm just playing around a bit with her characters within her HP world.
> 
> A/N: Thank you, guys, for leaving kudos, bookmarking and commenting on this story. I apologised for the late update (And after hypocritical promises the likes of 'weekly updates' as well). Here's the chapter 6. Enjoy!
> 
> WARNING: There will be a lack of Hermione in this chapter.

In which everyone got to witness first hand the distress that was Sirius’s A+ Parenting, the barmy town that was his profession, the queer intrusiveness that was an inherent trait of the Black family, and the questionable sexual preferences that was his potential fiancées’ fantasy. Just his luck that Tom also reached that age whereupon he started fancying himself a God. 

 

 

The very first lesson Sirius taught Tom Riddle was ‘Stupidity was contagious’. Contrary to Hermione’s suspicions of cult callings and indecency in the making and vulgarity at its finest, all Sirius ever did to the kid inside that room were talking to him. About the world. About family. And about the things people did for love. Or the lack of it. It wasn’t harangues, per se, nor hymns, nor moralistic fairytales. He left Hermione to that. What he did was balancing her view for Voldy. People often thought, wrongly, that the way to ‘cure’ those like Tom (manipulative psychopaths with constant homicidal impulse) was to pile on them a mountain of morally-corrected lessons and to shower them with unconditional love, so that they could somehow be redeemed and became reasonable and functional members of the society. What they didn’t know was that there were no cure for such a thing. People’s natures were like rubber bands. They had a certain shape to them the very moment they were created. As they grew, said shape would grew taut in several directions until the very form of it started changing temporarily. Nevertheless, once the force that pull them disappeared, the general shape of it would bounce right back to its original form. Worse yet, pulling it too much into any direction would only fostering its inevitable tendency to bounceback in the _other_ direction, given the natural elasticity. Tom’s rubber band, for instance, was probably ten percent reasonable (‘Good’ - if one had to use the fairytale’s vocabulary) and ninety percent questionable (‘Bad’, in other words). If Sirius left his education entirely to Hermione, she would resolutely pull him into the ‘good’, ‘kind’, and ‘productive’ human being route. But his rubber band wasn’t really of that form, and excessive effort in forcing it would only drive him even further into the opposite direction. Hence the importance of Sirius’s so-called ‘grey’ input.

If he would turn evil and horrible anyway, then the very least they could do was to have a certain amount of influence on the direction of such villainisation.

But he digressed. Sirius was reminding Tom, once more, of their very first lesson together:

“Stupidity is contagious, Tom.” He said, fingers drumming on the table and eyes staring straight at the dark orbs of the boy before him.

Tom was eight now, tall for his age and ‘pretty enough to piss people off just looking at him’ (and here he quoted Hermione, inserting some of her original teeth gritting and nose scrunching). Black hair, dark eyes, fair skin, the boy was bigger and healthier than most kids his age (and of course he had to. If eight years worth of Unspeakable salary couldn’t fatten him up enough to be at least twice the size of him living in the orphanage - the other timeline - then Sirius would be exceptionally offended).

Sirius didn’t often repeat lessons (it’s monotonous and inane), but this was a special case. Tom was eight now, and would be spending one year in Muggle Primary School. It was redundant, this arrangement, seeing as Hermione had, in her fervour, drilled in Tom’s head all primary education by the time he turned seven and had even started a bit on secondary education at the beginning of this year. But...his daughter was freaking out. She was twenty-three and she barged into his bedroom one night ranting hysterically about the severe lack of human interaction and insisting emphatically that she was having grey hair. She did not, of course. Yet the very fact that she kept insisting so and trying to tear out her hair for him to see it was a testament to her mounting hysteria. Tom was taking his tolls on her, Sirius could see, and Hermione needed a vacation.

Not wanting to waste those pretty twelve N.E.W.T.s (his daughter was a bloody sensation after her test, even Black cousins wanted to curry favours now), Hermione decided to be a temporary Curse Breaker for a year (How was _that_ a vacation was beyond him). It would be one year of periodical days off, and three hundred out of three hundred and sixty five days per years spending in Egypt, Maya, and about a dozen of other exotic places, and, of course, the entire thing made it impossible for her to take care of a child.

Sirius sincerely doubted the possibility of the house not burning down if he were to take a year off to take care of Tom for her. A few hours per day seemed quite enough for the both of them already. Hence, the primary school. It would not be a boarding school. (Again, Sirius sincerely doubted the possibility of Tom not burning it down by the second week). But it would help occupy the kid when Sirius was at work. Besides, Voldy ought to be exposed to the Muggles soon, anyhow. Broadening his horizon might stay his hands and teach him the important lessons that idiots existed in both Muggle and magical world, so in case he still wanted to barreling on the route of human termination, he should at least do it indiscriminately. (Hermione would disapproved, Sirius knew. But Hermione was also a bit too fond of Tom, and kept forgetting that he was more of a dangerous dinosaur being kept in a reasonably small cage with lions as jailers than an actual family member.)

“Yes. I know.” The boy frowned at him, book clutching closer to his chest, “You have told me before.”

Sirius fixed him with a warning look:

“And I am also repeating it now. So that you know how to conduct yourself at school.”

Tom had been livid when first introduced to the idea that Hermione would leave him and that he had to mingled with inferiors for an entire year. He had to get used to it, though, because Sirius didn’t tolerate off-aged tantrums and he was still strong enough to shackle the boy whenever his moods got the better of him.

Tom’s lips twitched into a small smirk:

“To avoid them all and make sure that their germs can’t contaminate me?”

“No.” Sirius clicked his tongue and said, “But it is necessary that you determine what kind of people they are ASAP, and categorise whether or not they are morons. If they are, stay away from them. If they aren’t...well let’s see what you can glean and learn from them.”

“From Muggles?” Tom’s face was marginally distorted from disgust now.

Sirius gave him a glare:

“Oh? And none of the Blacks or Malfoys or Bulstrodes are stupid?”

That shut the kid up, but not without a lot of skepticism. Sirius ignored his reactions and continued:

“Just as the magical world has both decent folks and disgusting deficiencies in our midst, the Muggle world also has both interesting people and unsavoury morons of different types. You going to school is to experience it first hand and to start seeing the world in a more objective light.”

Tom stared at him for a long moment and shrugged non-committaly:

“I thought it was because Hermione is tired of me and you are terrified of babysitting?”

Sirius curled his lips back into a smile full of teeth:

“That, too. But if Hermione was truly tired of you, I would have made certain that you attend Muggle school diligently for all three years left before Hogwarts.” He took the book from Tom’s hand and shifted through it a bit, “But since she only wants a short vacation, I don’t see any harm in having you experiencing a year of Muggle education. You need to meet more people than Blacks and purebloods anyway.”

He avoided the word ‘friend’. Sirius knew, with great certainty, that Tom never had friends (not in the previous timeline, and not in this one, either).

The boy crossed his arms in a perfect imitation of Arcturus Black (not the cute one who was Sirius’s brother, by the way) and shrugged:

“If you say so, Sirius.”

Sirius was half a second away from clobbering the brat for being flippant, but he thought about how meaningless the gesture would be to someone such as Tom, and refrained.

“Do me proud, kid. Remember...”

Tom recited in that suppressed impatient way of his:

“Limited bullying. No disclosing magic. No fraternising with idiots. No ritual mating with snakes.”

“And...?”

“Scream ‘rape’ at suspicious adults who approached.” Then the boy scowled, “Wait, but I’m eight years old. Aren’t I a bit too old to do that?”

Sirius gave him a pitied look:

“The use of that word has little to do with age, Tom, and everything to do with the level of prettiness we have. Even _I_ still scream ‘rape’ at random people sometimes.”

* * *

 

Interestingly enough, Voldy did wonderful at school. Now Sirius _knew_ that h _e_ would do excellent at Hogwarts, charming the socks of professors and lording over the student body without so much as an effort (even more easily this time around, when he had the backing of the Black name and the whispers of Slytherin’s heirship behind him). But Muggle school was an entirely different story. Sirius had never really hoped that the kid would have any reason to flash his Good Boy persona at Muggles. Yet he did, and in a flawless way, too. Maybe Hermione’s influence on him wasn’t as flimsy as Sirius thought.

Aside from that, their father-son awkward bonding time was getting excruciating. Sirius didn’t cook, so they ate out most time, at Diagon Alley, with waitresses cooing over Tom and fawning over him at random intervals. Sirius also didn’t do laundry (not that often, anyhow), so his household spells on that front were sloshy and messy and worthy of the unrestrained look of disapprobation Voldy gave him whenever Sirius attempted the deed. But they survived, somehow. They endured each other, endured the nuisance that was the Blacks’ meddlesomeness, and endured the occasional flares of epic dramatics that Sirius’s colleagues embarked on.

One perfect example for such dramas was the Unspeakables’ shameless house-calling intrusion on their humble abode one fine Saturday. It was four thirty in the morning and there were much outrage going on.

“Look at the bleeding clock!” Said Sirius, half naked, half screeching and one hundred percent indignant.

“Oh my! How quaint, Little Siri! Never take you for a person with such huge dose of Victorian nostalgia.” Said the pregnant Leticia Lovegood, belly protruding impossibly and getting dangerously close to the handrail wherein Tom once hide a disguised Coronella austriaca to surprise Hermione (She nearly got a heart attack, his poor daughter).

“Near morning now, mate. You really should try to improve your biological clock, Siri. The Department of Mysteries is a kingdom of overtime work.” Said Finley Bode, clicking his tongue condescendingly and patting Sirius’s back affectionately as if they were the best of friends (they were most certainly not).

“Can I let my pet loose on them?” Asked Tom, voice half confused with sleep and half malicious with the prospect of blood-letting. Sirius gave him a warning look, before turning back to their uninvited guests.

“Why are you here?” Said Sirius, annoyed and itching to kick them out of the house in the most unceremonious way possible.

“Look! Pigeons!” Said Lovegood, like nobody’s business.

“Oooooh. Pretty. How come there are pigeons at this time of year, Sirius?” Said Bode, as easily distracted as ever.

Sirius could feel a vein throbbing painfully on his forehead. Finally, he could somewhat understand Hermione’s annoyance at his own nonsensical train of thoughts. Unspeakables were all freaks. Brilliant freaks but freaks nonetheless. You couldn’t _believe_ what Sirius had to stumble upon everyday on his way to his own desk.

Just this week, he had stepped on the Exploding Poops that was supposed to be a reversed improvement of Amortentia. According to its crazed creator, Baldwin Dagworth-Granger (whose sole purpose in life was to prove that his grandfather Hector’s notion of impossible love potion was bullshit) of the Love Chamber, the gooey substance, once being stepped upon, would explode spectacularly and gift its stepper with a powerful aroma that induced infatuations of the highest level from everyone around him/her. Sirius had been skeptical, even as Griffiths, Powell, and even Parkinson started looking at him with mournful adoration when he passed them on the hall. It simply wasn’t very persuasive, as Griffiths was affianced to Hepzibah Smith, Powell was fifty-two and a spinster, and Parkinson had been suffering from a somewhat abusive marriage with a first cousin that had been rumored to also be her half brother. But then he had to rethink it, as even Reynolds, Macmillan, Lovegood and random Aurors started sending him perfumed love letters with _hair_ in them. To the best of his knowledge, Reynolds was asexual, Lovegood was several months pregnant, Macmillan was married to a man who was neither gross nor her brother, and Aurors found Sirius outlandish and suspicious.

And if that wasn’t enough of evidence as to the bedlam that was Sirius’s workplace, two months ago, Powell from the Thought Chamber redecorated the entire department office and arranged a bunch of booby traps with an interesting explosive potion that supposed to turn a person’s closest dream into reality. It was a work in process, obviously, but the workplace was a pandemonium on that day. Lovegood grew a pair of rabbit ears and started singing every time she open her mouth, Bode turned into an Anubis - though a bit reversed, with the body of a dog and his face making fascinating opinions, Griffiths had hair of Rapunzel and a crossbow big enough to put a hole in the head of a very obese person (*cough* Hepzibah *cough*), Reynolds transformed into a toddler, Baldwin could not stop farting Amortentia (though that might only be him), and Sirius turned into a woman. Truthfully speaking, it was hilarious for half of the day. He had bigger boobs than most actual women and beautiful enough to make fools of many men and women inside and outside his department. But then Sirius needed to relieve himself, and the experience turned traumatised instead. Describing the details would be crude, but in the end,Sirius concluded that though he loved women, he could not ever get used to being one in this lifetime. If the Powell’s potion didn’t expired by the end of the second day, Sirius and his other colleagues would have ganged up on Powell and tortured her till she did something to reverse it.

Yet those were still not the worst examples of it. A few months back, even before Hermione left to find herself amongst abbos and Neanderthals, Griffiths and Reynolds, from the Death Chamber, somehow summoned a Chupacabra the size of a Behemoth and accidentally let him loose on the Department. Parkinson nearly lost an arm, Powell _did_ lose an ear, Bode broke his wand and the only thing that stopped the damn monster from massacring them all were Baldwin’s Eureka as he threw a new improved Amortentia potion of his on the Chupacabra’s head, rendering it confused with love for Lovegood (who was standing the closest) and creating enough chances for Sirius and the two Death Unspeakables to try to vanish it.

At the end of the day, Sirius strongly believed that he must be an all-around amazing person, to be able to keep his sanity working in that kind of environment.

Returning to the surprise house-calling and sure enough, Lovegood, still cooing over the pigeons on the windowsills of his house, ignored him entirely and moved to the window.

Sirius grounded his teeth and rounded on Bode instead:

“Is there a reason for your intrusion on my property at this unholy hour?”

Bode, at least, snapped out of his queer fascination with pigeons and gave Sirius a ‘Oh-yes-thanks-Merlin-you-remind-me!’ look, before saying loudly, signalling badly at Tom still blearily staring at them up from the staircase:

“Uh YES! Of course we do! You know…the _thing_ you asked us a few months back…” Another stop, and several unsuccessful winking and gesturing not very discreetly at Tom, who looked at Bode like he was a failure as a human being but still felt suspicious enough that the kid refused to burke from his position.

Sirius vaguely remembered what he had asked them, and blanched for a few seconds before telling Tom:

“Go back to bed, Tom. It’s Unspeakables business.”

The boy gave a light scowl, before shuffling away, yawns in place. As an afterthought, Sirius called after him:

“And no spying! Either by yourself or your snakes!”

He would have to put up a sound-proofed barrier, he knew, but it wouldn’t hurt to remind the kid beforehand. 

After Tom’s door clicked shut, Sirius herded Lovegood and Bode into the sitting room.

“So?” Sirius locked the door behind his colleagues and do three different sound-proofed spells before asking.

Bode looked grave and Lovegood looked apologetic, and Sirius knew all the answer he needed. He faltered in his steps, but pressed on and dropped into his salon with an exhausted sigh.

Bode cleared his throat and said:

“Just as you have suspected, Sirius, there were some... _technicalities_ relating to the Veil _._ The results just came out, but it seems that you and your daughter are _..._ not going to be aging anytime soon.”

That was a roundabout way of saying that the Veil has officially made them immortal. Contrary to popular beliefs, that did _not_ make Sirius felt better.

Immortality was only sweet to people of little consequence, or people who had decided to hole himself/herself into a hut in the woods and wait until time pass them by (no offense, Flamel). Neither of those were a choice to Sirius, nor Hermione. They were reknown unregistered Time Travellers, for fuck’s sakes. He was a bloody salaried bureaucrat who had also constantly been at the center of the pureblood society’s rumour mills. He had at least five scandals to his name (three relating to the speculations about his non-existent sex life but okay!), a criminal record a mile long (apparently, unauthorised dueling Aurors because they gave you stink eyes were a capital crime now), and an official employee file filled with biological evidences and many original discoveries and formulations of spells that was his trademark. Hermione broke a great number of records with her exceptional N.E.W.T.s result and her hexing of potential betrothed(s). Inconspicuousness was a wonderful but bleeding delusional dream.

And then there was Tom. One of their grand missions was to impacting his rise as the evil Dark Lord of the latter half of the century. Instead, they would be there, flaunting their ridiculous immortality and eternal youth at a psychopath with an extreme Thanatophobia case. The sheer _hypocrisy_ of it made him cringe.

“But that was straight on, Siri. How did you know?” Lovegood was asking him, absent smile and soothing eyes in place.

How did he not know, really? When after eight years and his daughter still looked like an (pretty but) awkward teenager and he did not have any lines on his face even though he was nearing his fifties now. The Blacks excellent genes could only explain so much.

“...the spells woven on it was incredible... no idea how to proceed though... no authorised travels through the Veil anymore...”

Bode was still delving into the complicated research process of the Veil and time, but Sirius no longer listened to him.

“Cease now, Alistair.” Said Lovegood, voice calm, “Siri needs time to process all this. We will leave now, and come back later, when he was more himself.”

Sirius snapped his gaze back to her, more than a bit grateful. Lovegood smiled at him:

“And never you mind about the confidentiality. We’re Unspeakables.”

* * *

 

Sirius decided against telling Hermione. At least not yet. His daughter would throw a wobbly and Merlin forbid she got anymore hysterical than she already so often had.

He had to tell her, he knew. Just not today, nor tomorrow. Nor before she finished her vacation.

So he launched himself into his work instead, seeing as his efforts at babysitting couldn’t get any better than what it was now. He visited the Blacks more often, too, so that Tom could frolic about with other children his age without having to constantly bounded by magic secrecy. If he knew these visits would lead to this presumptuous intrusiveness, he would never have done so and took Tom to his colleagues’ houses instead.

“I don’t see my eligibility has anything to do with you, nephew.” Sirius growled at his namesake (actually, he was the namesake, but never mind the mind-blown inconsistency of time travelling) and tried his hardest not to jump out of his seat in disgust like a skittish maiden.

The Other Sirius calmly crossed his arms and looked beseechingly at Sirius (this was becoming rather confusing):

“Uncle, please. It is just a meeting, is all. You can meet her and see how it goes. That family has been nagging me for a potential match for ages. And the only Black’s male remotely eligible at this point is you.”

“What about that Marius kid of Cygnus?” Asked Sirius, teeth gritting.

“That’s one a Squib.” The Other Sirius spat as if it was vile to even say the word, “And he is three years younger than her, in any case.”

Sirius was aghast:

“Three years...! Bloody Merlin’s tits, Sirius! Is she _nineteen_? What kind of cradle robber do you think I am?”

His supposed nephew’s eyes flashed:

“And how old _are_ you, uncle?” The old man looked at him hungrily, as if he could drill a hole into his head and extract the secret of eternal youth from it, “It was well-established that you were thirty back when you first landed back here. But uncle,” His voice turned vindictive now, “I don’t really think you look any older than back then, no? Mortality rate in Middle Age should have been shorter than now, so was the longevity of youth. And yet...”

A shiver ran across Sirius’s back. He stared intently at the lined face of his supposed nephew and forced himself not to balk at the blatant greed on his face. A deep breath, face maintaining the blank expression from before, Sirius said:

“I will go meet the Greengrass girl. For the family. But, nephew,” He stood up, eyes shattering cold and mouth tightened into a sneer that would have made his mother proud, “The next time you buy information from my colleague, there will be consequence.”

He turned and walked away, before turning his head back as an afterthought:

“Accidental Squib aside, isn’t Cygnus’s branch much more powerful than yours as of late?”

Sirius walked away before seeing Sirius II’s reactions to his off-handed threat. It was no threat, really. Aside from Orion Black (his future-past-kind-of father, who was following Tom around like a pet dog at this exact moment), he would not hesitate to cripple the whole Sirius II line if any shit of this magnitude came about again. The Wizarding World of this decade has no lack of Blacks, after all.

* * *

 

The Greengrass girl was...well, a girl. She was younger than his daughter, not in looks, but in the way she held herself, the wavering smile that she offered him when they first encountered, and the occasional squirms that she must have thought no one could see. She was attractive, he had to give her that (even though the very fact that he was evaluating a girl younger than his kid made him want to vomit). She also had a predictable habit of glancing furtively at Cantankerus Nott two tables over, then turning to him and blushing spectacularly like a toddler caught with her fingers in a jar. Needless to say, Sirius disliked her to bits.

“Why are you here, child, if all you ever do is making us both uncomfortable with your blatant infatuation with Cantankerus Nott?” He asked, more curious than angry.

Startled, she blinked rapidly at him with green eyes nearly glazed over (Must have been an endangered specie in the Greengrass family, this one).

“I don’t... I...” She stumbled, flushing somewhat, “I mean, I do not mind, you know, the... involvement between you two.”

It felt like lightning struck him squarely in the face, blasting off both skins and eyeballs at the same time. Sirius nearly jumped off of his seat:

“What involvement? What are you talking about? Whoever the fuck...?”

He ditched the entire veneer of aristocratic politeness. Screw politeness! Someone (many someone, by the showing of things) somewhere had been thinking about the disgusting possibility of him, Sirius Black, and bloody filthy Cantankerus Nott in an _involvement_ and _that was not okay!_

Valeria Greengrass blinked owlishly at him:

“You don’t know?”

Of course he didn’t know. There would have been blood if he caught even a whiff of any such revolting rumours. It wasn’t the fact that they think he was _bent_ whereas he was ramrod ruler straight that made him so outraged. In fact, he _did_ dabble in this and that before, and concluded that he could bend occasionally (one of his greatest teenage crushes was a boy, whom he was still having certain fuzzy feelings for every once in a while) and super straight most other time (note again: Bella, Jean something and some dozen or so women). No, the fact that made him so grossed out was that _Nott_ was the supposed object of his affection. Merlin’s beard, if he had wanted a man to warm his bed, he would have chosen Malfoy, who - despite the irritating narcissistic tendencies - were at least pretty, of acceptable conducts, semi-infatuated with him, and had never penned anything as obnoxious as a Pure-Blood Directory, thank you very much.

Valeria Greengrass was still talking, face more eager than she had any right to be:

“But the things they said! There are talks about how you and him got all...physical inside an abandoned sections of the Ministry?”

“Because we were...!” Unauthorised dueling each other. That was the fourth time, by the way, and the last three had gotten into both Sirius’s and Nott’s criminal records. The prick would get suspended from the Department of Law

Enforcement, and Sirius would have to deal with house-arrest if this information got out. So he held his tongue, even though the thought of people gossiping about his supposed intimacy with Nott made him want to kill something. “It was an academic discussion. No one was getting intimate with anyone. I would appreciate it if you refrain from spreading such slandering rumours.”

The Greengrass girl has the gall to look skeptical, but she nodded mutely at his murderous glare and muttered indistinctly afterwards:

“...shame. I’d love to try a three-way with you two.”

Sirius’s eyebrows twitched and he swore to himself that he would run naked around Diagon alley before letting his supposed nephew robbed him into doing something like this ever again.

* * *

When he went to pick Tom up from number 12 Grimmauld Place, Sirius finally found out why Voldy was being such a Good Boy at Muggle school. Eavesdropping on children should have made him more ashamed about himself, but after the disastrous meeting with Valeria Greengrass, nothing would be considered embarrassing for him anymore. As he stood outside the playroom, he heard Orion’s high-pitched whine:

“...boring, Tom! Are you sure it’s worthy of our attention?”

“Either control your pitch of voice like a civilised human being,” Tom’s voice sounded bored and flat, “or don’t bother to enter the conversation and embarrass us all.”

“He’s right.” An older voice now, but mind-blown enough, entirely sycophantic to Tom, “Whines are for dogs and babies. You are six now, Orion.”

“You seems really interested in that Muggle book, Tom.” Another mild but scratchy voice quipped, “The Bi...Bible, eh? Is that what they are teaching you in that Muggle School?”

That quipped Sirius’s interest. What was Voldy doing with a Muggle’s sacred scripture? That Muggle school probably taught it in between the classes, but Sirius was of the impression that that particular kind of subjects would have Tom torturing teachers to get out of. Was he wrong?

“What do you think Muggles deemed the worst crime a human being can commit?” Tom’s voice was thoughtful, near nonsensical with how much he digressed from the current topic.

“Ugh...killing family members?” A hesitant older voice inputted.

“Burning down their church?” Another contributed.

“Incestuous conducts?” Sirius recognised this voice.

He put a Disillusionment Charm on himself and stuck his head in the doorway just in time to see the entire room giving young Alphard Black a look of profound incredulity. Well, no one of a sane mind would start criticising incest in the House of Incestuous Happenings that was the Black family’s stronghold. Except for his esteemed uncle, apparently.

Tom put an end to it with an impatient snap of the closed book:

“ _No_. The worst crime a person can commit is,” The dramatic stretch of silence was just so... Voldy that even Sirius wouldn’t help the smile making it way to his face, “fornicating with mammals.”

The silence ensuing was tight and uncomfortable. Even Sirius felt uncomfortable. Then...

“What are mammals?” Asked Alphard Black.

“I want to go to the bathroom.” Said Orion Black.

“So specific. Does it mean it’s alright with reptiles then?” No. It was not. Stop talking, Walburga.

“What about birds? I know a wizard who sexually harassed his owls...” Sirius sincerely questioned the parenting qualifications of Belvina Black and Violetta Bulstrode if they allowed their kid to make acquaintances of such questionable kind.

“Is camel a mammal?” Asked Alphard Black, still determined to get a proper definition of mammals out of his cousins.

“Right! I know another wizard who had tried to have sex with his camels!” Again, exactly what kind of acquaintances was that kid making?

“I want to go to the bathroom!” Wailed Orion Black.

Sirius had to massage his forehead. Listening to these children’s conversation is killing his brain cells.

“Sit down, Orion. If I want an equivalent of that saying in the magical world,” Tom asked, conversational now, “what would it be?”

The children looked at each other, and shrugged:

“The worst crime a magical citizen can commit?”

“Yes?” Tom’s voice was somewhat patronising now.

“Ugh... Fornicating with Muggles?”

Tom was evidently as annoyed as Sirius himself, as he threw the book at Abraxas’s(Such an outrage! Why was peacocks’ spawn hanging out with Sirius’s kid again?) head and grumbled:

“Don’t be a moron! That would hardly fly with Muggle-sympathisers in our midst, no?”

Walburga (His mother lived just as she had died, being a nuisance to everyone.) recoiled and screamed:

“What do you mean? Why do we need to please those blood traitors?”

Tom looked to be deep in thought, and he started opening the book again. When he spoke, his voice was contemplating:

“The Muggles are…united. A huge percentages of Muggles are devoted to their God and believing this Bible to be The Book of Truth. Wizards like us don’t have this belief.”

Dorea shrugged and said:

“We don’t need God, Tom. We are magical enough to be our own God.”

“That is true.” Tom looked directly at her and hummed, “But what if we make one anyway?”

Sirius felt just as confused as the rest of the kids inside that room.

Tom continued, eyes gleaming in that way that made Sirius a bit squeamish:

“Shall we create a magical scripture together? One that unites the magical world and propels us to seats of power in the future?”

Ah. Eight years old and his kid is already strategising world conquest.

At that moment, a nasty smell blasted off the air around them. The children squealed noisily and Orion Black (his father -shame upon shame) concluded forlornly:

“I told you I need to go to the bathroom.”

Sirius sincerely hoped that Tom would, at the very least, reconsider his choice of companions in world conquest later.

 

 


	7. Morons Will Be Morons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tom got royally sick of vulgar grandparents, of impotent father, of ancestors with unoriginal naming sense, of irritating bearded old man (that was probably queer as fuck), and of morons overload in general.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, everyone. No, I am not dead, and I apologise profusely for giving you guys enough reasons to believe that I am. I know this will probably be the oldest and most unbelievable excuse in the book, but I have had a massive writer's block a few months back. I kept breaking off my train of thoughts and could not seem to be able to finish what I had already laid out for this chapter. Even now, I still have this weird itch that this chapter has turned out to be a fascinating piece of crap that had every character become OOC beyond reasons (more than they already did, anyway xD). Tom will be in Hogwarts in the next chapter, so I do hope that the storyline will stop being stagnant.  
> Really, sorry again for updating so late, and enjoy the chapter!

In which Tom got royally sick of vulgar grandparents, of impotent father, of ancestors with unoriginal naming sense, of irritating bearded old man (that was probably queer as fuck), and of morons overload in general.

Three weeks into his eleventh birthday, Tom came belatedly to the conclusion that he was surrounded by idiots.

It was the fact that it took three whole months for his toadies to refrain from generating verses that started with the word ‘fornicating’ in his scripture. (Apparently, the ‘f’ word resonated with something deep within preteens and post-toddlers - which said wonders about their credibility as semi-sophisticated human beings). As an effort of subtle antagonising, Tom even needed to set his snakes on them in the toilets. Repeatedly.

It was also the fact that Hermione returned from Egypt just a few days shied of his ninth birthday looking half-Amazonian and somehow still having a massive existential crisis (or so Sirius claimed, anyway). His guardians got into a spectacular fight, the content of which was guarded zealously away from his prying ears (which were unbelievably unfair, especially since he had been so gracious as to forgive Hermione’s transgression of leaving him alone with Sirius for nigh on a year). They made up much later, but it didn’t lessen Tom’s spurned pride and had him giving them stink eyes for weeks (the perfect form of which he learned from her, by the way).

It was also the fact that Sirius got caught in a compromising position with an inadequate-looking man with a pretentious first name (Mr. Pretentious Nott, as Hermione dubbed him) and had his face all over the newspapers and magazines across the country for inappropriate behaviours. The overwhelming level of scandalisation and backlashes from high society got to the point where Tom had to ask Hermione in his most serious voice whether or not it was possible for them to ditch Sirius and change their last name and start living in a hut in the woods until the shenanigans died out. Hermione said no, of course, with her trademark disapproving look at Tom and a sigh so long it made him felt exhausted in her place. He then asked, even more solemnly, if he would be allowed to turn prying wizarding neighboursinto pigs the next time they snoop around the house spying on ‘that scandalous gentleman and his probably out-of-wedlock kids’. Interestingly, Hermione wisely said nothing to that. Tom took it as an encouragement, and proceeded with zeal. Sirius were incandescent with rage by the whole thing (not the neighbors-turning-pigs bit, anyhow), and had had to be suspended from work and chained down by Hermione to be prevented from storming over to flay Mr. Pretentious alive and cut ‘that delusional Greengrass whore’ to pieces. Pity. Tom would have helped. They sounded positively awful.

It ended, though, just as spectacularly as it had begun, with pictures and news of a clandestine meeting between the Nott person and the Greengrass person in question started appearing indiscriminately on every front pages of every newspaper and magazine in England. At the same time, talks had been circulating in the high society of a previous matchmaking session between the poor framed Sirius Black and the vindictive jilted Miss Greengrass that had ended in plates being broken (‘The waiter was clumsy’, said Sirius) and tears being shed (‘The onions in her dish was too raw’, said Sirius). And _what do you know,_ Mr. Nott had been _coincidentally_ beside their table _the whole time!_ A disturbing yet exceptionally vivid picture of a jilted (possible) lover and an ambitious political rival coming together with a scandalous plot to frame the unsuspecting Mr. Black to the depth of hell started painting themselves on everyone’s mind, and Tom’s family got away unscathed. The incident forced Tom to reassess the resourcefulness of his step-father, though, seeing as he managed the entire drama in just three days after being released from Hermione’s needlessly strong magical chains.

As if those weren’t enough stupidity to last for a lifetime, Tom was forced to witness first hand the catastrophe that was the on-again-off-again engagement between cousin Dorea and Charlus Potter. Despite being all over each other for ninety-eight percent of time (subjecting Tom and all younger cousins to some very unhealthy PDAs that would surely put them off of romance for decades to come), the two somehow got a bad case of pre-marital breakdown and both families were dragged free-fall alongside them.

“I’m eighteen!” Dorea shrieked hysterically, bawling her eyes out and scaring her cousins (Tom _nearly_ included) shitless, “I have barely left Hogwarts! I have never even see the world! Mother! Did you know that there was a very dashing Abott boy in Ravenclaw who kept blushing and couldn’t meet my eyes at the Dueling club? How could I not know people like him exists and already I’m getting married?”

It was official. Everyone’s favorite cousin (really, even to Hermione!) had crossed the temporary hysterical lines and on the verge of becoming a permanent inhabitant of bonker town.

Cousin Callidora, who was hoisting her whiny son up on her hip, drily reminded Dorea that eighteen was a perfectly reputable age to get married at, as per tradition, even staring pointedly at her nose-running son as if to prove a point. Cousin Lycoris, who was in mourning for a third husband, scowled and pointed out undiplomatically that at least Dorea was having a husband soon, and that if it made her feel any better, the Potter boy at least had pretty teeth and muscular forearms. Cousin Charis claimed most emphatically that Abotts were weasels and their indecisiveness were contagious, Dorea should really have known better. And cousin Marius chose that exact moment to enquired mildly if Dorea made it a habit to look choir boys in the eye while dueling.

Charlus Potter also proved to have a fatal case of gamophobia, seeing as news of him continuously trying to fly off to Neverland on his broom made it to the Black household on a daily basis. The Potters showed their commitment to the arrangement by locking him in a cellar and writing heartfelt apologies to Sirius Black II. The Head of the House of Black was outraged,Hermione was bemused, Sirius was entertained beyond words, Tom had nearly developed a permanent migraine, and all other Blacks seemed to be on the verge of drowning themselves. The miserable couple got married in the end, but the precarious state of mental health of all involved couldn’t seem to get any better for years.

By the time the bearded old man with a questionable sense of fashion and surprisingly presumptuous demeanours rang their doorbell one fine morning in August, Tom had fairly choked to the brim with idiocy of the highest level.

Upon opening the door and beholding the supposedly wise old man in the woods, in all his twinkling probing eyes and overgrown red mane glory, Tom plastered on his Good Boy smile and tightened his hold on the door knob:

“Hello, Sir. How may I help you?”

It was tiresome, sometimes, to act the good kid when several of the instincts in his body were telling him to give the person in front of him a stomp on the foot and a slam of the door to the face. He had never been the stomping-on-foot kind of person (it _is_ clearly beneath his dignity, after all), but there was something inherently... uncomfortable about the man’s gaze that made him want to react badly to it. It did not help at all that the queer old man was fairly humming with magical power (more so than any other wizards or witches Tom had met), and a part of Tom immediately flared up with territorial indignation the likes of which startled even himself.

“Mister Riddle?” The man gave an easy smile in the midst of all that beard and stretched out his arm in one smooth movement, “Professor Dumbledore Of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Nice to meet you, young man. Is any of your guardians home right now?”

Just one word - ‘Hogwarts’, and Tom felt an immeasurable amount of offenses crawled up his throat like bile. Normal magical students of respectable families all received their letters through owls, which was both standardised and decorous. With this Professor’s appearance in front of Tom’s door, though... How dare these people treat him like a bloody... Muggleborn??(‘Mudblood’ was a forbidden word in his family, though Tom really couldn’t help letting some of his minions’ uncultured talks rubbing off on him.)

Tom had half a mind to restrain himself and flaunt a Good Boy response at the old man, but stopped himself at the last minute. He really did not feel like forcing himself this early in the morning. And so Tom let loose his deadpanned stare:

“A letter would have sufficed, Professor.”

Dumbledore did not seem to be fazed by that, though it wasn’t as if Tom was expecting him to be. The old man gave a low chuckle:

“So it would have, young man, if your... family’s situation was not as complicated as it was.” He looked at Tom with insufferable serenity, “And really, this is not something ones discuss on the front steps, Mister Riddle. May I meet with your guardians?”

Hermione chose that inconvenient moment to call out from upstair:

“Is that a guest, Tom? Who is it?”

Tom swallowed down a curse, stepping back with the door opened wider and flashing another Good Boy smile at the old man:

“Most certainly, Sir. Please come in.”

* * *

 

Five minutes into the conversation and Tom already had this horrible inkling that Hermione _knew_ this Professor Dumbledore beforehand. For nigh on a minute after their introduction, she had stared at the old man with a dumbfounded expression the likes of which reserved mostly to ghosts and/or psychotic people. And even after snapping out of it, she kept on flinching imperceptibly every random seconds wherein her eyes met Dumbledore’s. Tom was aghast, because it really seemed as if she did not only know the old man, but also somehow _looked up_ to him, from the occasional shine in her eyes when looking at him. Tom’s dislike for Dumbledore grew exponentially by the second.

“It might seem impudent of me to inquire such, but why exactly is it that you and your father decided to adopt young

Mister Riddle, lady?” Professor Dumbledore, apparently, looked down on the concept of ‘beating around the bush’.

Hermione’s eyes hardened and she straightened her spine:

“I wasn’t aware that the students’ personal past is under Hogwarts’s jurisdiction. Is this an interrogation, Professor?”

Looking insufferably insouciant, Dumbledore put down his cup of tea and stared at Hermione:

“It is of concern, Miss Black, if there are...ulterior motives in you and your father’s decision to adopt young Mister Riddle.” Still having that unfathomable expression on his face, the old man asked almost conversationally, “His real family is still around, you realise?”

Tom felt as if a ball of slimy water had been dropped on his stomach. His insides felt cold and cool disgust rose up in his throat. They were alive, his biological family. And yet Tom was supposed to rot in that orphanage.

He knew Dumbledore’s words to be of merits. There _should_ be some reasons why Sirius and Hermione adopted him knowing all the while that his family still lived. That would be a cause of contention, he knew, but later. He refused to give the damn old man the satisfaction of seeing them getting flustered and turning on each other with merely a few words.

“I still don’t see it is any of Hogwarts’s business, Professor.” Tom chirped in, voice half sing-song, “Are you saying that all professors go out of their way to do pedigree-check for several generations to every students they admit?”

He left just enough opening for Hermione to snap out of her stupors and finished the question:

“Or is this a personal project, Professor?” She narrowed her eyes at the old man, face taut, “How...dedicating of you, sir.”

“It is a personal concern, yes.” Dumbledore admitted easily, “You and your father are...famous, I should say. And when you two decided to adopt a child from the orphanage, a _magical_ child, coincidentally... Well, it makes one wonders.”

Hermione was annoyed, Tom could tell, though she made sure no such things were shown on her face:

“Scamanders are sparking international scandals with possible unauthorised intermarriages. Grindelwald is haranguing magical world war. Blacks and Crabbes are reproducing at an alarming rate. And you _wonder_ about a young talented magical boy of respectable upbringings just because his adopted guardians happened to be time travellers?”

Dumbledore gave a light laugh at that:

“You seem intent to make this all about me. I can most certainly assure you, Miss Black, the problems lie with Mister Riddle’s true family.”

Impossible as it was, Hermione’s posture went tauter and she shot Tom a worried glance before saying:

“It can only be so if you went out of your way to inform them, Sir. We... It is to our knowledge that his mother’s side was still in Azkaban and and his father’s side barely acknowledged him at all.”

Something cold lurched inside Tom’s stomach again, and he dug his nails painfully into his palms to stop himself from reacting violently to this information. Disdain swelled up in his throat and Tom had this irresistible urge to shatter every lightbulb within a mile radius, just for kicks.

Hermione must have sensed something from him, for she reached over to rub his back and snapped at Dumbledore:

“This is no conversation to be had in front of a child, sir. Tom, would you mind...”

“With all due respect, Miss Black. This is a matter that greatly concerns him and his choice. I believe Mister Riddle has to be present to...”

“I have been having a migraine, incidentally, ever since you set foot in this house, Professor.” Tom cut him off, not caring about propriety anymore, “This is, as you have said, a family matter, one that I hope to be able to hear directly from my _father_ Sirius and my _sister_ Hermione. May I be excused now?”

He moved swiftly to the door at Hermione’s timely nod.

Shutting the door close behind him, Tom took a deep breath and schooled his face into an expressionless feature again (Not before a very emphatic quake shuddered around the house, though. He was eleven, stop expecting him to be level-headed all the time).

It would be a lie to say that Tom had never wondered about his biological family. Not in the ‘supposed they are purebloods’, ‘supposed they accidentally lost him’, ‘supposed they wished for his return everyday’ kind of thoughts. He _was_ already growing up with purebloods, he _was_ already brought up by sane, powerful, and accommodating guardians of respectable upbringings themselves. There was not much to complain about, really (Save for the occasional overdose of stupidity, but everyone had their moments. No one can shit sunshine forever). But yes, he did wonder sometimes. Were they alive? Did they know of his existence? Were they magical? Were they, Merlin’s forbid, plebeians?

That still didn’t mean that he want to hear all this information from the mouth of a stranger. A queer old man that would be his Professor, but a stranger, nonetheless. Hermione and Sirius really should have told him beforehand, getting all flustered over inconsequential matters was no way to make a first impression.

* * *

 

The night after Dumbledore left (giving Tom one last meaningful glance in the end), his guardians sat him down and gave him a talk. By the end of it, the only conclusion Tom could get out of the melodramas Sirius was telling was:

“You are saying I’m unwanted.”

The window glass behind Sirius shattered.

With an annoyed frown and a mild wave ofthe wand, Sirius fixed it right up and told Tom:

“By them, most likely.”

Hermione glared at him:

“Sirius!” Then she squeezed Tom’s unresponsive hand, “Don’t listen to him. We don’t know for certain if they feel that way, or whether they know about you at all. Sirius just wants you to prepare for the worst.”

Across the table, Sirius rolled his eyes and asserted emotionlessly:

“It _has_ come to the worst, Hermione. Stop trying to sugarcoat it for him. Tom isn’t a kid anymore.” He cut her off before Hermione could put her objections to words, “No, listen. I went to Azkaban a few years back.”

Hermione paled visibly beside Tom. Sirius sighed:

“Morfin was...disgustingly vocal about his opinions on his half-blood nephew. We are in civilised companies so let’s not sully our ears with the particulars of that conversation. Oh and by the way, I took an heirloom, Tom. I will give it to you when you come of age.” He took a deep breath before looking at Tom in the eyes, “Your father’s family is rather...difficult. I approached them, years ago.” Sirius seemed almost reluctant to continue, “For selfish old bags, they really were obnoxious and judgmental. It’s up to you whether to meet up with them, but keep in mind to be vague about magic and that they are ten kinds of bastard. Don’t falter and don’t get hurt. They aren’t worth it.”

Tom felt his head throbbed painfully.

“Do they know about magic at all?”

Just the thought of elucidating the intricate theories of wizardry to two shrivelled and prejudiced Muggles with the emotional range of a tree bark gave him an excruciating pain not only in the butt but in literally _everywhere_.

Sirius’s expression illustrated quite clearly how much he empathised with Tom in that. Hermione just looked crossed at them:

“You two are incorrigible.” She scowled, “Professor Dumbledore has eluded that he had given them a simplified explanation of magic already. We only need to converse with them about Tom’s education at Hogwarts, is all.”

Professor Dumbledore was really too nosy for his own good. Tom would have lived his life perfectly fine without ever knowing that his biological relatives were revolting and hating his guts. Now his homicidal tendency was rising again and if the meeting with the so-called family went haywire, Dumbles would have only himself to blame for the bodybags.

Tom’s attention got snared into something else, though:

“Where’s the heirloom? How come I can’t have it now?”

He would want it, he thought. Must have been something useful. The Gaunts were one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight after all.

Sirius gave him a smirk:

“Nuh-uh. Heirlooms tend to be powerful magical artifacts, kiddos. You haven’t even a wand to use properly yet.” He stood, stretching his arms and yawning uncaringly, “Master fifth-year spells and then we can talk about your heirloom.”

Tom would have been outraged if Sirius was anyone else. Thinking of taking _Tom’s_ birthright? Tom would have made sure that person die in the most horrible ways possible. But really, it’s _Sirius_. Lax, untidy, and hating-birthrights-and-pretentiousness Sirius. It was almost unthinkable to believe Sirius would steal the heirloom (whatever it was) from Tom.

He shrugged and followed suit by standing up and saying goodnight to Hermione. _All in good time, Tom,_ he told himself, _all in good time._

* * *

 

“Well, this sure is backwater.” Said Tom, deeply unimpressed by the nondescript manor house surrounded by lawns and hills.

Hermione gave him a light knock on the head for that:

“Don’t be unpleasant, Tom. We taught you better than that.”

He sighed and rubbed at the spot:

“... Fine. Are we to walk all the way there?”

Hermione steeled herself:

“Yes. Apparition too near would break the Statute, after all.”

There were only the two of them. Sirius got some incredibly important project coming up, so he left Hermione with the address and careful instructions on how to deal with cranky old Muggles that was Tom’s grandparents.

The walk to the front steps of the manor was noticeably quiet. Tom supposed he would be more anxious if Hermione weren’t already twitching with nervousness. It almost seemed as if she was agitated enough for the both of them.

A crippled footman answered the door, looking at once bedazzled and disgruntled at the appearance of Tom and Hermione on the Riddle’s front porch. Tom resisted the urge to curse him.

“Good afternoon, good sir.” Hermione tightened her hand on Tom’s shoulder and greeted the man with a perfunctory smile, “My name is Lyra Black, and this is my brother, Tom. We are here to call on Mister and Mrs. Riddle.”

The footman scowled unattractively (though that was an unfair assessment, as Tom hardly believed that there was anytime at all when the man could be considered attractive with bone structure as mediocre as that) and grunted:

“Wait.”

When the grumpy piece of excrement slammed the door in their faces and turned to call for his employers, Tom took in a deep breath and swirled to look Hermione in the eye:

“Why is this necessary? Can we just go to Diagonal Alley instead? I want my books and wand.”

Hermione barely looked any happier than him as she loosened her hands on his shoulders and said with suppressed anger:

“It is necessary,” she glared at the closed door with hand tightened on wand, “because Professor Albus Dumbledore is suspecting us of purposefully brainwashing you and using you in a conspiracy for blood supremacy. Gaunts are direct descendants of Slytherin, after all. You are to meet your biological family and ask for their approval to go to Hogwarts.”

The wind picked up violently as Tom felt himself tense up:

“He _blackmailed_ us? I can’t go to Hogwarts if filthy Muggles don’t approve of it?”

Hermione gave Tom a warning look before answering:

“It isn’t quite so simple. It’s more or less a test. He will be checking the conditions of your grandparents after our meeting, and depends on how we go about it, he might even file a report to the Ministry so that Sirius and I either go back to being under surveillance or...worse.”

“Worse?” Tom’s voice was calm and shatteringly cold, “Azkaban? Is that what ‘worse’ means?”

Hermione took care not to look at him, and Tom felt the air around him shuddered.

“Hermione?”

“Not Azkaban, no. They need concrete evidences to do so. But they can convict us of random offenses and have us confined to the Department of Mysteries, where Unspeakables will be positively thrilled to conduct all kind of mental and physical experiments on suspicious time travellers. And you will... They will take your custody away from us. I can’t be certain of what they will do to you after that, but whatever it is, it won’t be pleasant.”

Tom frowned:

“Sirius has Unspeakable friends, though. And you are _Blacks_.”

Hermione opened her mouth to explain, but was interrupted by the swing of the door in front of them. They both clammed up immediately.

The grumpy footman stuck his head out, scowling all the while:

“The lord and his lady will be meeting you now.”

Annoyed at the interruption, Tom balled his hands into fists and the nearby nightingale promptly shat on the older man’s bald head.

* * *

 

“Identify yourself.” The stringent old man that looked disgustingly similar to Tom ordered them from across the table.

That was the first thing he said to them as Hermione and Tom crossed the threshold and had yet even received the basic courtesy of ‘Hellos’ and ‘Sit down, please’.

Tom bristled and Hermione seemed to be fighting off her disgust. She gritted out:

“I imagine your footman has already informed you of our identity. Can we skip this unpleasantness and go straight to business?”

The old man gave her a disdained glare and motioned irritably to the seats furthest away from him. Tom made it a point to knock the nearest candleholder down to the unblemished carpet and make as much noise as possible as he pull the chair back to sit on it. Both of the adults’ face turned greenish at that. It almost made Tom felt bad. He did like Hermione much more than he hated gross Muggles, after all.

They were sitting at the dining room, only the three of them. Thomas Riddle no.Infinity seemed to have not one ounce of intention to invite them to lunch, but he did looked remarkably like someone who would call for lunch and have it right in front of them out of spite. It was once again proven that Tom was an excellent judge of character, because ten minutes into the conversation (which consisted mostly of Thomas’s veiled insults fired at Tom and Hermione due to their _peculiarities_ and supposedly indecent breech of propriety by barging in on his ancestral house, and their own mild jibes and suppressed anger at his disastrous manners), the old man held up his hand to halt them and called for the chef to serve his lunch. He then proceeded to devour it, in that pompous way that made Tom itched to force the chandelier and all five floors above down on his stupid inflated head, while still gesturing patronisingly at his guests to continue.

Yet continue they had to do anyway. Hermione made their case as simple and concise as possible, and finished with a polite nod:

“It would be more proper if you are informed of Tom’s attendance in this school, Sir. Despite the complication of his custody, you are his biological family, and it would lift a great weight off our shoulders to know that you are aware of his situation.”

Mister Thomas Riddle shove a piece of roasted beef into his mouth and arched an eyebrow condescendingly:

“...Well, I’m informed now. And that is all?”

Even before Hermione reacted to that seemingly nonsensical response, Tom’s realisation came so suddenly it shocked him to bits that he hadn’t seen it before. He bit back his outrage, though.

For a moment, Hermione looked confused:

“Yes? Is there anything else...?”

Impatiently, the old man wiped at his mouth and gestured grandly:

“As you can see, young lady, our family is ... of a higher standing than what you and the _boy_ are used to.” Sneering ever so slightly, he continued (deeply unaware of Tom’s mounting homicidal mood-must have been wonderful to be stupid), “you have to understand, we have met your kinds aplenty over the years. Regardless of your expectation of the _boy’_ s importance to this family, we want nothing to do with him. Don’t expect contributions of tuitions, which most likely will flatten _your_ purse more than any kind of education he might receive, and don’t even think of inheritance. Bastards are shame enough upon the family name that we don’t even need to consider his peculiarities in order to erase his existence in the history of our house. So yes, I appreciate that you two have come all this way to inform me of inconsequential tidbits. But now that you have finished...”

Hermione cut him off cleanly by shooting to her feet and exuding an unbelievable amount of magical pressure. Her hair cracked with the unrestrained incandescence that he shared:

“Are you implying, sir, that we are here to _beg_ for your money? Or that we want _anything_ from you?”

She looked to be on the verge of exploding, and Tom had half a mind to push her to it, really. But then he remembered Professor Dumbles, and Merlin forbid he could not have the old man breathing down on their necks any closer than he already had. Gritting his teeth hard enough that his jaw ached, Tom tugged Hermione’s sleeve and gave her a warning look.

She squeezed his hand but did not deflate:

“We do not, nor will we ever, have any intention of asking for _anything_ from you, _sir._ Do refrain from being delusional of your supposed important existence. Your pomposity is high enough to bring down the Big Ben as it is.”

Thomas Riddle’s face turned into an expressive color of puce as he made to stand up and waved his offensive finger at Hermione. Squaring her shoulders, Tom’s sister looked murderous enough to initiate a wrangle right then and there.

It would have come to that, too (he was not gleeful, really, he was merely satisfie... er... anticipating a reasonable resolution to the shitload of theatrics), if not for the impossible melodrama ensuing right at that moment.

The spectacle unfolded with an old woman dressed in an incongruous silk dress (age-wise) and earrings shiny enough to half-blind everyone in the vicinity rushing in and wailing theatrically at the sight of Tom:

“Oh. Oh! OH! Oh, Thomas! Look at him!”

Thomas made certain to do exactly the opposite. That did not deter the woman:

“He looks exactly like you! And like _that one_! Oh, Thomas! To think that when all hope is lost when it comes to _that one,_ this little one comes to us! Finally, we have a decent heir!”

The door was opened again, and this time, a haggard-looking man with unseemly resemblance to Tom tripped in, falling nearly flat on his face and knocking his head on the nearest chair (Tom had an inkling of who he was, but Merlin’s beard the _shame_ of being related to that thing!). Still struggling ungracefully to his feet, this new man barked out in a pained nasal voice:

“... Mother... What do you even...?”

His eyes caught Tom’s and Hermione’s, though, both offended and disgusted beyond measures, and this new man blanched. He took rapid breaths, even as the two old people were screaming at each other right on the other side of the room. A beat. Two. Then the haggard middle-aged man started screaming.

Hermione tightened her hands on Tom’s shoulders (again! She really was tested entirely too much this day) and seemed hard-pressed not holding her hands over her ears to block the noise out. All the screeching, Merlin. Tom could not help it. He sucked the air from the room. Thomas wheezed in his personal affront and Mary Riddle choked on her hysteria as she crumpled to the ground. The deranged man with needlessly high voice fell down again, clutching at his chest and looking half-dead. Hermione turned to give Tom her exasperated stink eyes but had not been able to say or do anything before Sirius, unbelievably, barged in on the dining room in a flurry of righteous indignation, the footman being dragged along by his magically glued hands on Sirius’s biceps.

Eyes dilated, breath exalted, and every bit reluctant, Tom ceased his oppressive magic and slunk back to Hermione’s (who was still unnecessarily disapproving, by all account) side.

Sirius, being Sirius, did not disappoint. In three long strides, he was in Thomas Riddle’s face. He smoothly drove his hand into his coat’s pocket, pulled out a bag of gold (Are those Galleons? He really should stop making this a habit.), and smacked it right across the old man’s face. The satchel fell to the table, and gold spilled out of it in slow motion as Sirius grabbed the older man in a menacing hold:

“He is _mine_. He is _my_ son now. As he has always been. This will be the approximate cost of your reasonably adequate bloodline. I bought that drop of blood, I raised it as my own. And so he is mine. You are never to approach him again.” Sirius was nearly picking him up with how hard he was choking the old man, “You are to save your bloody drama for your bloody dysfunctional family and leave us all out of it. You. Are. To. Tell. Mister. Dumbledore. That. We. All. Have. Had. An. Incredible. Time. Together. This meeting will be recorded as civilised and because of your own discomfort with Tom’s existence and his biological father’s disgrace that you don’t want to contact him again. Ever. There is nothing wrong with Tom. Nor is there anything wrong with me and my daughter.” Shaking him harder and in a deep and even more threatening voice than before, Sirius asked, “You will tell him that, won’t you?”

Being a Good Son as he was, Tom chose that moment to have the nearest window shattered into pieces.

The woman screamed, the middle-aged man whimpered, and Thomas Riddle gave a startled nod and promptly passed out.

* * *

 

The trip back home was full of unresolved fuming and more than a little bit of disgruntlement.

“I don’t like that you made it sounded as if I _belonged_ to you.” Tom said.

“I don’t like that you keep throwing bags of money in the face of anyone you hate.” Hermione grumbled.

“And I don’t like that you two are so inefficient that it took more than half a day to convince a bunch of ignorant Muggles that they _are_ ignorant and should act accordingly.” Sirius spat, “But here we are. So I don’t see any meaning in continuing arguing about it.”

After a moment of silence, Hermione frowned:

“Tom exploded a bit at the end, though. Do you think Professor Dumbledore will file a report on us?”

Sirius gave her a look and tugged their hands for a quick Apparition. Stepping back out into their own front porch, he sighed:

“He wouldn’t have a chance to. I already filed one.”

“What?”

“Filed one the moment Tom did that thing with the wind. My report specified that he was meeting his long lost family -who also abandoned him ages ago- and became needlessly emotional about it.”

Hermione looked unconvinced:

“And they’ll accept that excuse?”

Sirius shrugged noncommittally:

“No one died. And I did apologise profusely and promise to educate him on it later.”

They entered the sitting room and Hermione swirled around to face him:

“You promised them something else, though.”

Tom pretended he wasn’t listening in intently on them by picking up a book on Ancient Runes on the bookshelf.

From the corner of his eyes, Tom saw Sirius looking uncomfortable.

“Well...” He mused his hair and avoided looking at Hermione. “... I might have eluded that I am willing to partake in a threesome between the Head Department and his lover. Maybe.”

Tom dropped his book. Hermione scooted back to the other side of the sofa in mild disapprobation.

“Ugh. You just want an excuse to sleep with Malfoy. And Macmillan.”

Sirius nodded solemnly and admitted unabashedly:

“That, too. It’s really time high society get a gist of what I’m _really_ in to. All the shite with Nott is giving me a dyspepsia.”

And right then and there, at the tender age of eleven, Tom accepted, with a growing level of resignation, that he was surrounded by idiots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little notice for all of those who have been gearing up to accuse me of darkening dearest Professor Dumbledore: I do not hate Albus Dumbledore. I don't think he was an evil old man, either. He was just hypocritical in the strangest of situations and kept pushing the worst of tasks to his students. In my fic, he was forced to bear witness to the atrocity that his old lover was wrecking on the world, without the ability (the damn curse) or the (really, be frank) inclination to do anything about it. He had plans relating to cultivating students to do his bits, but he himself felt an immeasurable amount of shame and frustration at his own weakness for not stepping up on his own. So he kind of tuned out for a bit and tried to busy himself with something else. In this case, it is this suspicious situation of this magical kid adopted by two notorious time travellers. And what do you know, digging a fair bit and he found relations to Slytherin! So he went and poked around and genuinely worried about a vision of two possible Dark Lords (Haha, think of Sirius and Mione as Dark Lords) running from their own time to plot another world conquest using the Heir of Slytherin. A tad bit too paranoid, I know, but probable, given the situation. He will still be super suspicious about Tom, but unlike in canon (wherein the boy was a creep who didn't know how to hide his creepiness just yet), he will be suspicious about Tom by association (as for how much blood supremacy the two Dark Lords were pumping into the once-sweet-and-clear river of his mind).  
> He is still a good old man in my book. Just somewhat more of a nuisance to Tom's, Hermione's, and Sirius's lives.  
> P/S: The encounter this chapter does not mean Tom will not kill the Riddles in the future. It means that there might be possibility wherein it will not happen the way it has in canon.


End file.
